


Find You

by LadyDorian



Category: 60 Parsecs!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety Disorder, Dirty Jokes, Dreams, Dubious Therapy Practices, Fluff and Smut, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Memory Loss, Mental Health Issues, Minor Violence, Panic Attacks, Past Relationship(s), Rimming, Sexual Fantasy, Slow Burn, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 05:44:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 60,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17698763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDorian/pseuds/LadyDorian
Summary: Months before his thirty-fifth birthday, Emmet discovers an old jacket in his closet, a hidden stack of Polaroids, and a part of his life that had inexplicably gone missing.





	1. Alarm

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second 60 Parsecs fic and my first attempt at a Modern AU (ever!). Long story short, I wanted a fic in which Emmet and Baby have sex, but didn't want it to be dirty, stranded-in-space astronaut sex. That being said, this is going to be a LONG story. So grab a snack and strap in.
> 
> Title taken from the song ["Find You"](https://youtu.be/rYS9ZdGt9Ko) by MAN WITH A MISSION.
> 
> For background purposes, this fic is set in an unnamed city in 2018. It is not historically accurate.

It's 6:31 and 42 seconds when Emmet's phone starts to buzz atop his nightstand. He knows as much because he's been counting obsessively for the past two hours, as if ticking off the last moments of a bomb too stubborn to explode. A lost cause regardless, like the night before and the three preceding, and as Emmet reaches out and pulls the phone from its charger, he tries not to envision how things might be different if he had friends who possessed a shred of common sense.

"Yeah?" he groans.

"Heyyyy, Em! Look, I know it's a little early…"

Factual error #1: It's way too fucking early.

"...and you were probably asleep…"

Factual error #2: He was not.

"...but do you think I should wear my hair up or down tonight?"

Factual errors #3 and #4: Emmet doesn't have the capacity to think right now, nor has Deedee ever cared about his fashion tips.

"Dee...it's not even 7:00 AM on a Saturday. You've got, what, twelve hours to sort this out?" He yawns directly into the receiver, hoping to breathe some guilt into her.

"Yeah but you know I'm no good at making decisions. You're the guy with ten PhDs; this should be a cakewalk for you."

Factual error #5: It's  _one_ PhD. Unless Emmet counts his years of independent research on how to deal with difficult people, final results pending. "You realize we're going to speed dating, not the royal ball."

Deedee huffs one of her trademark sighs, slightly less effective as Emmet can't see the little nose-wrinkle that often accompanies it. "Well maybe you should think of it like that. I mean, if you want to get a date for your birthday."

"Christ, Dee." He rolls over onto his other side and pulls the comforter tight around him. "You've been doing this ever since I turned thirty. It's like you're trying to marry me off before I become a spinster or something."

"Hey, having a date on your birthday is good luck. Kinda like breaking a mirror, only instead of a curse, you get seven years of hot sex."

"Do you also throw salt over your shoulder every time you knock over the shaker?"

"Only on full moons and days that end in ‘y'," she jokes. "And don't insult my methods. Maybe this time around you'll find your Mr. Duncy."

"Doubtful. And it's  _Darcy_."

She snorts, "How would you know? You taught Chemistry, not English."

For a moment Emmet considers hurling a pillow across the room, but remembers that his good pair of glasses is on the other table. "Look, I hate to break it to you, but the first few guys weren't exactly  _Bachelor_  material. They weren't even  _Big Brother_ material. The one barely made it past Groundhog Day."

"What about this year's choice? He seemed nice."

"Damon? The guy with the scraggly beard and the acoustic guitar who only knew how to play Ed Sheeran? I think that speaks for itself."

"Well, what about the year before that? Good ol' Mr. 33?"

Emmet rubs his forehead with his unoccupied hand. "He was...good? Old? I don't know. ‘M too tired to remember what he looked like."

He hears a soft tapping sound on the other line, as if Deedee is sorting through the marbles in her head for an answer. "Yeah, me either. Guess he was nothing to gloat over. Well, if I can't make 35 the best year of your life, I'll eat my bandana."

"Which one? You've got about fifty."

"My favorite one, the blue and silver paisley."

"Good. Bring it to my party. I want to see you choke it down in front of the entire restaurant."

"Hey, you jest but I got a good feeling about this one. That's why we're gonna snag him early this year."

"It's mid-October, Dee. My birthday isn't until January 13th."

"Goooood feeeeling…" Deedee sings, and Emmet wishes his grip were strong enough to crush the phone.

"Can I please get out of this? Please, Dee?"

"What? No way. Do you know how long it took to find a gender-inclusive speed dating night? They give you pronoun stickers, Em. That's cool as fuck."

"But—"

"Bring your Polaroid along, sneak some pics. I know you love that old-timey retro shit."

"You know what's not ‘cool as fuck'?" Emmet jeers.

"Warm shrimp cocktail?"

"Taking photos of people without their permission." Though Deedee's answer had been correct in its own odd way. "Look, I'm hanging up now. I need to get back to sleep."

"Getting your beauty rest for tonight, huh? ‘Cause you know you won't be sleeping after that, am I right? I'm winking, Emmet. Just pretend you can see me."

"How many cups of coffee have you had, Dee?"

"Two so far. But I've got a third waiting in the pot."

"Of course you do. Well, goodnight. Or good morning. Whatever." He's about to hang up when Deedee screeches:

"Wait! You didn't tell me about my hair!"

"Up," Emmet replies and tosses the phone away. It lands close to the edge of the mattress where it teeters hesitantly before taking the plunge to the floor below.

"Shit…" In his haze of exhaustion, he flings his arm outward, though the phone is long gone, and if he were being honest with himself he hadn't cared much to save it anyway. Deedee won't call back; she's probably brewing up cup number four right now, pitching fancy headscarves halfway across the room like a magician with a nervous tic. They'll still be there when he stops by to pick her up later, because Deedee's blood is made of caffeine and her mind a jumble of knots tugging in all directions, and if it wasn't for Emmet, they'd probably pull her apart. Though he supposes if it wasn't for Deedee, the same might happen to him.

He blinks over his shoulder at the clock:  _6:48._ The morning light is already starting to seep through the blinds, slivers of pale blue that slice the mattress and wrap around his forearm like delicate bangles. Slowly, Emmet drags his hand over the sheets, counts the lines as he'd done the hours, minutes, seconds:  _Two, three, four, five._ When he reaches the band of light nearest him, he digs his fingers in, tries to pull it closer. Tries to remember.

Earlier that morning, and the night before, and countless still, Emmet had felt something there that shouldn't have been. A shuffle, a warmth, a body beside him in the dark. When it hit, the sensation shook the air like a crack of thunder, and he'd bolted from his sleep, a frightened child scrambling for light to drive the monsters away. Except there were no monsters, no ghosts or boogeymen, no rodents that stalked the halls of his apartment. He didn't even own a cat. So why—despite irrefutable evidence to the contrary—had he been so convinced that something—some _one_ —had been sleeping in his bed?

If it had been a nightmare, Emmet can't recall the specifics. He'd never had them much to begin with, not since he was in elementary school, and maybe those few instances in grad school where he'd dreamed of showing up naked to present his dissertation, only to discover he'd written it upside down and in Egyptian Hieroglyphs. He closes his eyes and opens them again, but nothing changes except the slats of light creeping across the sheets. And yet, stupid as it may seem, he holds out his hand, pushing against the space where he imagines another's back might be, though he knows it's been empty for quite some time.

 

Emmet had taken a little over four years to complete his doctorate. He'd passed every Organic Chemistry class with honors, published a dissertation on the effects of human vocalization on photosynthesis, graduated summa cum laude from the twenty-eighth most prestigious (and affordable) university in the U.S., yet he still can't comprehend why he bothers trying to knock on Deedee's apartment door, granted it always seems to fly open the minute he raises his fist.

"Em! C'mon in!" She beams. "Are you ready to have fun in sixty seconds or less?"

Stepping inside, Emmet surveys the colorful mess of clothing draped over every piece of furniture. "Same as always, huh?"

"Ouch." Deedee grimaces. "Well, let's see if we can't get that stat up to 120."

"What? No, I meant—Could we please talk about something other than my sex life for once?"

_"Pfft!_ Sex life? What's that?" Laughing, she heads into the kitchen, where more scarves are scattered on the counter. She sweeps one aside—red with black stars—and reaches for a tall bottle behind it. "You wanna drink before we go? I already had two shots of espresso but it was espresso vodka so I figure it evens itself out."

"No thanks. I think I've got enough nausea to last until tomorrow." But Deedee has already poured the shot and is holding it out to him, a toast to his defeat.

"Aw, c'mon. Don't you want a little liquid courage?"

"Will it give me the courage to finally say no to you?"

Kicking back the drink, Deedee turns and busies herself at the counter once more. "I can see you're in one of your moods." A rhythmic clinking of glass punctuates her annoyance. "You not get enough sleep last night?"

Emmet glares silently.

"Well, whatever. Let's have a look at you." Fourth shot down, she circles the tiny kitchen table with surprising poise, striding over to the front door where Emmet has been standing since he set foot into this debacle. "Hmm…" She pushes herself up on her tiptoes, strokes her chin thoughtfully, frowns before taking a step back again. "You didn't shave."

Emmet runs his fingers along the edge of his jaw, grazing the scant dusting of facial hair. "I thought we went over this. I look like a kid when I'm clean-shaven. Chris Hansen will show up and try to arrest everyone in the room."

"Alright, I'll give you that, ya little jailbait." She tries to elbow him in the ribs but misses by a mile, rolls her shoulders back to shake off the embarrassment. "Did you brush your teeth?"

"Yes, Dee."

"Wash your face? Comb your ‘fro? Can I touch it to make sure?"

"Yes, yes, and no, that's racist."

Argument null and void, Deedee proceeds to pluck at the sleeve of his orange-and-yellow-checked button-up shirt, humming in what Emmet assumes is either approval or some kind of respiratory infection. "Good color combination. Really brings out your complexion."

He sighs, "Did we not just talk about this?"

"Oh, relax, Em, I was just joking. I swear it's like I gotta pull teeth to get you to laugh anymore."

Somehow Emmet has a feeling that pulling teeth might be right up Deedee's alley; she certainly has the knack for torture. "Are we done here?"

"Almost. Now lift those arms and lemme see ‘dem pits."

"Oh my god…" Emmet groans. He shoots Deedee an irritated look and reaches for the ceiling, imagines he's trying to grasp an object just beyond his fingertips, like a baseball bat or a lead pipe, something to put him out of his misery.

"Dammit, Emmet, did you forget to wear deodorant?"

Maybe some dynamite instead. Just enough to take out the apartment. "I can't help it if I sweat a lot when I'm nervous."

"Fine," she huffs. "Just don't give out any high-fives."

"Not a problem. Could I put my arms down now?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure. You look like a beautiful flower."

"Thanks." Emmet rolls his eyes.

"Great! Now, then…" Clapping her hands together, Deedee flashes him a sickeningly delightful grin. "On to your banned topics. Under no circumstances are you permitted to talk about super-sciency stuff—"

"Dee, you know I have a doctorate in Chemistry."

"—the Big Bang Theory—"

"You're not making this easy."

"—the show  _Big Bang Theory_ —"

"But it  _sucks."_

"—arguments on  _Breaking Bad,_ and  _do not—_ I mean absolutely not—say anything about  _the incident._  That's fourth, maybe third date material at best."

"Why don't I just sit there and pretend I'm a rock?" He sneers. "Anything else from the censorship bureau?"

Deedee mouths each item while counting them off on her fingers. "No, I think that's all. Unless…"

"Unless I'm struck by the urge to discuss my plot for world domination?"

"Does your plot have anything to do with frog genitalia?"

Five more minutes of this conversation and Emmet feels he'll have to plug his ears to keep his brain from leaking out. "Deedee, did you drop acid before I came over?"

"I dropped a fistful of chocolate-covered coffee beans in my mouth, y'know, for good luck. It's a Dawkins family tradition, you wouldn't understand."

"No," Emmet replies flatly. "I'm sure I wouldn't."

"OK, now do me!" Like her aforementioned frog, Deedee takes an emphatic hop backwards, smiling at Emmet as she eagerly awaits her appraisal. As if Emmet didn't have enough pressure on his shoulders as it is.

"Umm...you look...acceptable." It's not a lie per se; it's just that he's seen her in that sky blue blouse and dark pair of jeans so many times it doesn't impress him anymore. Even the blue and silver paisley bandana seems boring. Maybe it would be more exciting if Deedee followed through on her promise to eat it, but he's jumping the gun there. "I mean, I don't think you're going to scare anyone off."

"Thanks, Em," she says sarcastically. "Reeeeally appreciate your input. So what about my banned topics?"

Emmet contemplates for a moment. "I don't know, maybe just don't talk about how you think Starbucks drinkers are cretins?"

"Damn, you're really backing me into a corner here, ain'tcha? And I believe the term I used was ‘scum-suckers'."

"Whatever. Can we go before we miss the bus?"

"Alright, let's get this show on the road." Smoothing back her wavy blonde hair, Deedee retrieves her purse and coat from their haphazard resting place on the arm of the sofa. "You bring your camera?"

"Locked and loaded." Emmet pats the messenger bag at his hip. "I even brought an extra pack of film."

"Good, because tonight is gonna be memorable." She reaches to open the door but quickly turns around. "Wait, where's your jacket?"

"It's only October," he says. "The temperature was 71 just last week."

"Yeah well, global warming aside, you weigh about as much as a toddler after a bath. You're gonna be whining about how cold it is in less than an hour."

"Really, Dee—"

"Y'know, there's a reason bears put on more weight in the winter. It wouldn't kill you to have some cheeseburger meat on your bones."

Emmet forces a thin smile. "Then you can buy me one tonight. If I haven't already chewed through all of my fingernails."

"Hey, you're gonna be fine. And if not..." She shoots him a wink and opens one side of her coat, revealing a gleaming flask tucked into its inner pocket. "Deedee's Pub is open for business. No cover charge."

"Knowing you, it's probably full of coffee."

Grinning, Deedee locks her arm in his and leads him out of the apartment. "Guess we'll just have to find out."

 

The restaurant is packed, to Emmet's growing alarm, crowds so thick he can barely see the bar through the front window. Not like alcohol is a problem; he can always fall back on Deedee's pocket flask if the need arises. Though judging by the way his internal organs are playing pattycake with his stomach, Emmet doubts he'd be able to stop at few sips.

It doesn't occur to him how tightly he'd been clutching the strap of his messenger bag until Deedee tugs his arm and he feels the rough scrape of fabric on his palm. "Door's over here, Em. Can't walk through walls." She tries to guide him in the right direction, but Emmet's feet have already taken root in the sidewalk.

"I—I just need a—some more—fresh air."

"Whoa, whoa, don't go hyperventilating on me now. I'm fresh out of paper bags." If Emmet were brave enough to check his face in the window, maybe he could see what it is that makes Deedee stop chuckling and furrow her brow in concern. "Look, it'll be OK, Em. I promise. You want some pocket vodka to help you out, hmm? You want a ‘lil podka?"

All Emmet wants right now is to leave before he loses control of his bodily functions. That and maybe a means of traveling back in time to spare the English language from the word "podka." But he's afraid if he opens his mouth, every last ounce of sass will come gushing out all over his shirt and shoes and possibly Deedee's paisley scarf, if she keeps standing so close. Shuffling backwards an inch or two, he clamps his lips tight and whimpers a feeble warning.

"Alright, I get it," Deedee says. "So it's a tiny bit more crowded than our usual spot—"

"Mmmph…"

"—and everyone is looking at you and expecting something from you—"

_"Mmmmmmmph…"_

"—but I know you can do this, Emmet." She gives him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, but all it does is cause the kinks in his muscles to tighten into steel knots. "Just take a breather and come in when you're ready, OK?"

Emmet chokes the bile back down his throat and nods.

"Good. I'm gonna go scope the place out. Catch ya on the inside."

As soon as the door swings shut behind her, Emmet slumps against the window and gasps until his lungs burn.

Fuck, what had Deedee been thinking? Trick question; the lack of filtering between Deedee's brain and the spewing pipe she calls a mouth makes it virtually impossible  _not_ to know the answer:

_"I can't help it if the pool at Emily's Pub has dried up."_

_"I wouldn't be a good friend if I didn't push you out of your comfort zone every once in a while."_

_"Seriously, what have you got against me trying to get you laid?"_

Ten pages and a full Appendix of MLA citations couldn't have convinced Emmet that he was cut out for the dating scene. And that's not counting the time she'd shown up with a science-fair-quality display touting the merits of Grindr. It took him a week to get the glitter out of his carpet.

"Goddammit, Deedee," he mutters under his breath. He glances back and sees her mingling with the crowd, a drink in each hand—one for now, one for later. Probably another Dawkins family tradition. Like throwing their friends off a cliff and into a chasm of endless panic attacks.

The odd looks he gets from two women passing by doesn't do much to discredit that theory. Trying his best to brush it off, he closes his eyes and slowly breathes in through his nose and out his mouth, like Meagan had taught him seemingly ages ago.

_One, in. Two, out._

_Happy places, happy thoughts._

_Three...Four..._

_A gentle breeze. The smell of the ocean. Birds chirping._

_Glass breaking. People shouting. The echo of mocking laughter. "IS THIS GONNA BE ON THE TEST, MR. ELLIS?"_

_Fuck. Just fuck it_. Meagan can go choke on a copy of  _Psychology Today_  as far as he's concerned _._ And Deedee—

As much as he hates to admit, she had been right about one thing tonight: He really should have worn a jacket. There are so many goosebumps on his skin, his arms feel like they could grate a block of cheese. And rubbing his hands over his sleeves only leaves him with sore palms and further regrets.

Shit, he's going to have to go inside, isn't he?

Blinking his eyes open, Emmet searches for something to distract him from the inevitable. Across the street he spots a half-lit neon sign in a shop window that reads "DRUG S OR"—not too shabby; on the corner to his left, a skinny tree sways against its wire shackles under the watchful gaze of the scourge that is "NO PARKING"—all perfect, if he were in the habit of wasting film. He looks to his right.

Several storefronts over, a tall-ish man in a dark sweater waits alone under a sign for the number 25 bus, his head bowed, hands crammed into his jean pockets, completely unaware of Emmet's presence. The streetlight nearby sets his red hair ablaze and gleams off his broad shoulders, but Emmet doesn't need its help to tell the man is built like a rhino. He also doesn't need any further reason to quit staring. Intimidating musculature aside, the stranger just gives him a weird vibe. Something unsettling. A point he doesn't want to argue.

Alright, then. The drugstore sign will have to do. He unlatches his bag and takes out his ancient Spectra, cold fingers fumbling to get a proper grip. After a decent amount of effort he manages to slip them under the strap, and has just flipped the release latch when a soft bubble of laughter makes him turn his head.

The red-haired man at the bus stop is speaking with an elderly woman maybe a third his size, the two smiling and giggling as if they were old friends. They might be, for all Emmet knows. He can't hear their conversation, but he sees the man gesturing to a large pile of plastic shopping bags at the woman's feet. She waves her hand in polite dismissal but the man reaches for them anyway, plucking them from the ground in bunches. And while a large part of him wants to cling to his defenses, Emmet can't help but smile a little as he creeps closer to the curb for a better look.

He's so wrapped up in their display, he doesn't notice the bus approaching until it grumbles past him and squeals to a halt just beyond the sign. Its hazard lights blink a steady yellow, and all of a sudden Emmet is reminded of the camera in his hands. He tightens his grip, thumb automatically sliding to the flash override switch.

The decision comes so fast his shame doesn't have time to catch up.

Flicking off the flash, Emmet takes aim and snaps a photo of the two just moments before they board. The instant the shutter clicks, he turns his back to them, listens with bated breath as the bus' engine fades into the distance, until all that remains of its memory is the soft murmur of traffic, and the image he now holds to his chest, radiating a calm warmth all throughout his body. He exhales slowly and peers down, pulls the photo back far enough so he can see the pale layers beginning to blossom into existence.

The restaurant door flies open behind him, Deedee's voice cutting the air with all the charm and tact of nails scraping across a chalkboard.  _"Emmet!_  What's taking so long? I've already been on twelve dates, and only three of them didn't make me want to drink myself to—Hey, whatcha got there?"

Emmet hastily slips the developing photo into his bag. "No-nothing."

"Did you take any pictures?" she asks, craning her neck around him as she wades knee-deep into his personal space.

"No. Didn't really see anything interesting." He shuts the camera and tucks it safely away before turning to face her. "Did you want to go back inside for a while?"

"What, by myself again?"

"No, with me."

Deedee arches her brows. "Really? You're feeling better now?"

"Yeah, kind of. I guess I could manage a few dates."

"Well, you don't look like you're about to puke out your soul anymore, I'll give you that." With a sly wink, she flashes Emmet another peek inside her coat. "Still got a little podka left if you're interested."

"Only if you stop calling it ‘podka'," he laughs.

"Wow, Em. Haven't seen you smile like that in a while." She squints her eyes comically and proceeds to jab her index finger into his chest. "Are you sure you're really Emmet?"

"No, Dee. I was assimilated by the Borg."

"Yep, you're Emmet." Deedee grins and clasps his freezing hand in hers. "Now, how about some of that podka before we start?"

"I'm not drinking any unless we change the name to vodket."

"Never. You'll drink it and like it."

"Fair enough. Give it here."

 

He arrives at his apartment shortly before 11:30, after ten awkward "dates" and one uncomfortable bus ride home, the latter spent with his arm around Deedee's shoulders, shirt soaked in tears as she sobbed over a cute girl who'd made the mistake of asking if she wanted to get a venti caramel frappuccino.  _"She didn't have to say it, Em. I could see the app when she pulled out her phone to get my number. It was right there on the home page like she wasn't even trying to hide it!"_  Thank god he'd been able to get her back to her place without further incident; one more drink and he might have had to carry her again. His lower back has never felt more grateful.

But, fuck, what a mess that had been.  _"Do you live in the bad part of the city?"_ No, sir, I live in a house made of candy and rainbows.  _"How do you feel about kids?"_ If I had a lawn, I'd yell at them to get off of it.  _"What would you say is your biggest aspiration in life?"_ To finish the year with my dignity intact.  _"Say if I were to proposition you for a threesome..."_ At that point Emmet had excused himself to the restroom and hid in one of the stalls until the urge to scream out his thoughts subsided. It wasn't long afterwards that he'd received the expletive-and-emoji-filled text from Deedee saying they needed to leave.

A dull ache still clings to his temples, defiant in the face of Emmet's persistent attempt to massage it away. He tries for another minute or two before giving up and kicking off his shoes in frustration. The bedroom is only a few feet down the hall, and once there, he deposits his messenger bag on the bed and promptly removes his damp, cold shirt. He's too worn out to shower, but a clean tee and fresh pair of pajama pants are the next best thing to washing the stink of the night from his body. His mind, however, needs a bit more.

Flopping down beside the bag, he pulls out the photo and carefully examines it. The quality is shockingly impressive for something snapped on a whim with less than five seconds to prepare. Under the warm lights of his bedroom he can see the man is carrying all five—no, six of the woman's grocery bags in one hand. He can make out one of the logos on the side, the tiny polka-dots on the woman's coat, her gentle smile as the good Samaritan holds out his other hand to help her onto the bus. On film the man seems friendly enough, and Emmet finds himself smiling along again as he'd done right before he'd captured their moment.

Shit. He  _had_ captured it, he supposes. Like a thief might capture a bicycle left unchained on the street. And after all the grief he'd given Deedee for even making the suggestion.

Not like he can do anything about it now. Sighing, he steps over to the closet, opens the sliding door and kneels down, reaching for the stack of shoeboxes on the left side. Three of them are full, but the fourth—the topmost one—he'd acquired recently, when his sneakers had needed replacing. He takes it out and cracks the lid just enough to slip the photo inside. But his hands are too clumsy with fatigue to function properly, and instead of sliding the box back smoothly, he knocks one of its corners into the side of the lone photo album propped up against the tower. The book tips over in a fan of plastic, its bright orange cover a beacon in the closet's dim interior. Emmet is about to put it back where it belongs when he stops himself.

_Why the hell not?_ He could use some cheering up.

Placing it on his lap, he opens the cover and immediately starts to smile.

Deedee had given him the album for his thirty-first birthday, after she'd found out about his hobby. Which is probably the reason hers is the first photo in the book, a simple one that shows her grinning while wearing a rainbow-striped party hat. All factors considered, she takes up a large chunk of the first few pages, with Emmet sprinkled in here and there like a garnish. There are what she would call "Polaroid selfies" of them at the park or on the subway. Shots of them on the beach, fighting off seagulls on the boardwalk. Deedee giving a thumbs up after she'd beaten the high score on Galaga. Pictures that warm his heart, memories that can still make him laugh after a challenging day. The two sitting in a restaurant booth behind a cake topped with a bright red "33" candle, Deedee's arm around his shoulder and her cheek pressed to his as she flashes a "V" for Victory. That time she'd burst into one of his labs and snapped a quick photo right before he'd yelled at her to put on a pair of goggles.

His smile flickers, then collapses altogether. With a blank stare, he flips through the rest, but after two or three more pages, all that remains are empty slots. They gaze up as though yearning to be filled, but Emmet feels little empathy for them. He puts the book away and is about to close the closet door when he remembers.

_The jacket. Fuck._

Deedee would murder his ears if she saw him without one again. He can still hear her harping on it during their ride home, threatening to make him wear hers in front of the already weirded-out passengers.

Since Emmet would sooner die than let that happen, he quickly rises and begins rifling through an array of colorful shirts and sweaters. Would Deedee let him off with a sweater? Some of them looked heavy enough. No, she said  _jacket_. Anything else and this could turn out very embarrassing for him. What about that knockoff Burberry trench coat? No, that thing was practically lined with newspaper. The puffy white one? Not since some of the other faculty had started referring to him as the Michelin Man. That black one with the furry hood from last winter? He'd donated it after the zipper broke, leaving him with—

"Shit." Absolute shit.

_No need to panic yet,_ he tells himself _._  It's Saturday, so that gives him three, maybe four more days until Deedee shows up after work with a bottle of booze to "make the week go faster." He might have time to buy something decent before then. Or it's back to the Michelin Man.

Grimacing at the thought, he shuffles through the rack again but it's no dice. He might as well quit now and hang his head in shame. At least it would give him a chance to get used to it.

Lucky for him he follows through with the act, because the moment he drops his gaze, Emmet catches a glimpse of something big and bulky stuffed behind the large plastic bin where he stores some of his older photos. Curious, he sinks to his knees again and pushes the bin aside. What he drags out is nothing short of a miracle.

It's an army-style coat, heavy in his hands, with soft padding lining the inside. The canvas exterior looks worse for wear—its olive green faded closer to a drab gray—and smells a bit musty from being on the floor, but Emmet will take what can get at this point. Murmuring a short word of thanks to the jacket gods, he throws it over his shoulders and slips his arms into the sleeves.

It's... _huge_. Emmet doesn't need to look into the mirror to confirm; he can just feel the fabric trying to swallow him whole like it hungers for his flesh. He glances down and sees it pooled around his thighs, lifts his hands only to find his palms gobbled up by the cuffs.

Why on earth would he own something so big? Where did he even get it? And why had he found it crumpled up in a corner of his closet?

Buyer's remorse might explain the last one. He really can't think of a better reason. Nor can he picture himself wearing this out in public, despite the fact that it's toasty as hell and the zipper works like a dream. Not unless he wants to look like a kindergartner playing dress-up with mom and dad's clothes.

Shrugging it from his shoulders—a painfully simple task given the way it's barely hanging on—Emmet spreads the jacket over his lap and attempts to fold it into something neater than a ball, stopping once he realizes it's about as manageable as a fitted sheet. That's fine; it can just sit there in a heap until he has a chance to get it to the thrift shop.

Was that where he'd gotten it from? Had it been just another one of Deedee's brilliant ideas? He smooths the wrinkles down with his hands, checks the pockets once or twice, searches for a tag, some form of identification. There are embroidered patches on the left arm he doesn't recognize: a blue circle with four white stars in the center, a yellow box with jagged black lines that might have spelled something once, before it lost its threads to time. Strangest of all are the big, blocky letters painted across the back, cracked and peeling like old frescoes:

_B-R-O-N-C-O_

Emmet traces his fingers over each of them but the word as a whole means nothing. Placing the jacket back on the closet floor, he stands and slides the door shut, making a mental note to ask Deedee about it in the morning.

 

It's the sound of springs creaking that Emmet notices first.  _Crick. Crick. Crick._ The mattress dipping in careful consideration, almost as if it were afraid to disturb him. Good, because he doesn't want to be disturbed.

_Crick. Crick._ He ignores it.

_Crick. Crick. Crick._ He's too tired.

_Crick. Creeeak._

Mimicking their song, Emmet rolls over, blinks through the fuzz and fog until the most basic of shapes start to tangle into being.

_B     N C O._ Spanning broad shoulders, a body within arm's reach, just sitting there at the edge of his bed.

"Wait…" he mumbles, reaching out and capturing a chunk of the jacket between his thumb and two fingers. "Don' go…"

The mattress shifts again, and then, very slowly, the shadow starts to turn.

 

Emmet wakes in an ice-cold sweat, fingers twisted in the sheets, breath fighting for passage through his lungs. Alone in his room, while dawn peeks through the windows, and the clock atop the nightstand blares a frighteningly familiar rhythm:

_Crick. Crick. Crick._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were curious, this is the camera that Emmet is using: [Polaroid Spectra user manual](https://support.polaroidoriginals.com/hc/en-us/article_attachments/360003014687/Polaroid_Spectra_Full-Switch_-_User_Manual.pdf). I remember my stepdad having one when I was a kid.
> 
> If you like it so far, drop me a comment or come chat with me on [tumblr.](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com)


	2. Happy Hour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY PI DAY TO EVERYONE! Sorry to keep you waiting, but hopefully this chapter will make up for it, along with the knowledge that things are only going to get much worse for Emmet from here on out.
> 
> P.S. I find Meagan is more fun if you read her with [Katarina Jones'](https://youtu.be/iANaIvUQW6w) voice from 12 Monkeys.
> 
> *with lovely artwork from the lovely [cringreader](http://cringreader.tumblr.com)
> 
> **and now with NEW ARTWORK! Thank you so much, [mysinichfeather](http://mysinichfeather.tumblr.com/post/184596556380/an-illustration-to-the-chapter-2happy-hour-of)! 
> 
> You all are so amazing! I'm so happy to have such sweet and talented fans! ^__^

"Thanks for seeing me on such short notice. I know our appointment wasn't until next week, but I really appreciate you making the time."

On the leather sofa across from him, Meagan Mann—PsyD, LCSW, and a bunch of other acronyms Emmet could never be bothered to care about—sits with her legs crossed and an open notebook resting atop her thigh, the sum of all Freudian caricatures bottled into one mousy-looking, middle-aged Asian woman with expensive glasses and an affinity for pairing pearls with red blazers. "Please, Mr. Ellis," she croons, fingering her necklace in that haughty way that makes Emmet want to rip his hair out, "it's all part of my job. Though I must say it's quite refreshing to see you actually want to be here for a change."

_Well, she's off to an early start today._ Two minutes in and Emmet is already biting his tongue.

"So tell me, what's troubling you?"

_The economy. Indigestion. Those stupid novelty coffee mugs someone keeps leaving in the break room._ In the end, he decides it best to relax his jaw and stick with the original plan. "This...might sound a little crazy."

Meagan smirks. "Try me."

"It's just—I've been having these weird dreams lately. Or—maybe— _feelings_ would be a better word," he stumbles. "I'll wake up in the middle of the night and swear someone else was in bed with me."

"I see..." She stops clutching her pearls long enough to unclip the pen from her book and jot down a quick note. Possibly the name of which mental hospital she plans to drop him in once she's collected her counseling fee. "And how long have you had these _feelings_ as you call them?"

"A couple weeks. Maybe a month."

"Well, this is the first I'm hearing about it."

Emmet would say she's in one of her moods, but that would imply Meagan actually had moods, aside from the embodiment of resting bitch face. "Like I told you," he explains, steering his scorn to greener pastures, "I didn't want you to think I was crazy."

Her pen scratches another comment across the page. "That seems to be an overarching theme with you, doesn't it, Mr. Ellis?"

If Emmet listens carefully, he thinks he can make out each of his nerve endings screaming in frustration. "Can we not talk about this right now?"

"Alright, then," Meagan concedes with a willingness that makes Emmet narrow his eyes in suspicion. "Moving back to your dreams…" She trails off, taps the butt of the pen against her lip as she looks over what she's written. "If I may ask a personal question—and if you feel comfortable answering—how long has it been since you've had another person in bed with you?"

Just once Emmet wishes he had a therapist who would simply nod along or cock their head to the side while tossing him softball questions such as _Now how does that make you feel?_ "I don't know. Not since March, maybe? Yeah, that was it. Deedee gave me crap for breaking up with my ex right before her birthday. Said she thought maybe she could get a new scarf out of him."

"Let's try to stay on topic here," she chides him. "So you're saying you haven't been with anyone since your last boyfriend?"

Emmet scowls. "I didn't think the point of me being here was to discuss my love life."

"No, Mr. Ellis, we know why you're here."

_Christ, Meagan_. "Look, I said I didn't want to—"

"No flings, then? Nothing casual?"

_How am I supposed to have a fling if I can barely keep it together long enough to actually meet someone?_ "This isn't _Talk Sex with Sigmund Freud_. Just drop it and keep your day job."

Meagan holds her palms up and pouts her lips like a spoiled child who couldn't possibly have done anything wrong, though Emmet has been around enough of that type to know the opposite is always true. "There's no need to get hostile. I'm simply trying to connect the dots here. Being that maybe your dreams or feelings or what-have-you might be a manifestation of your loneliness."

"How can I be lonely if Deedee is over my place at least once a week, eating my food and trying to get me drunk enough to convince me to sign up for dating apps?"

"I meant _physically. Romantically._ "

He barks a laugh at that. "Great. It's bad enough dealing with my best friend's shenanigans. I don't need my therapist trying to get me laid as well."

A smile crosses Meagan's face then, fingers returning to her strand of pearls, hell-bent on driving Emmet to the brink of rage. "You want to know what I think, Mr. Ellis?'

Emmet does not.

"I think you only let this bitter, caustic side of you come out around those with whom you are the most comfortable," she continues. "It makes me feel a bit special, actually."

That's debatable.

"Given the fact that I could barely get two sentences out of you just a few months ago, I'd say we're making some progress here."

Emmet's nails immediately cease their attempt to pierce through the couch cushions. "Really?" he asks, hope smothering the flames of his anger. "So you'll sign my release? Or whatever it is the school board wants so I can get my teaching certification back?"

The sharp look that follows tells Emmet all he needs to know. But far be it from Meagan to resist throwing more dirt on the pile. "You ask this question every time, and every time my answer is the same."

"But you said we were making progress," he protests.

"Yes, progress towards your _recovery._ That doesn't mean—"

"But there's nothing wrong with me."

Meagan arches her brows and huffs in indignation. "You had a nervous breakdown in front of a classroom full of students. Screaming, throwing laboratory equipment. Someone could have been injured. Had your colleague Ms. Dawkins not been there to calm you down, things would have been much worse for you."

She says it as if Emmet hadn't already considered that. As if he doesn't stand in the shower each morning recalling the look in Deedee's eyes as she rushed down the hall and practically threw herself at the security guards. Doesn't spend his therapy sessions thinking of involuntary committals and the threat of termination. Doesn't sit on his couch late at night with his head in his hands while the conditions of his suspension weigh on his shoulders like bricks cementing him in place, just as he's doing now, albeit on a much nicer piece of furniture. He rubs his eyes beneath his glasses. "I know…"

"And you know I won't release you from treatment until I'm certain you've found a less destructive means of managing your anxiety."

"Come on, Meagan." With an exasperated sigh, he grips the arm of the sofa and pushes himself up. "You know I've got a handle on this. I've been managing fine since then."

"How?" she balks. "You won't see a psychiatrist for medication, you shut down whenever I try to bring up your past history, and I highly doubt you've even attempted any of the meditation techniques I've taught you."

"I have...other methods."

"Well," Meagan says flatly, "perhaps you'll feel compelled to share them some day."

If looks could kill, Emmet's glare would be serving a life sentence. "I thought therapists were supposed to be compassionate."

"No, Mr. Ellis, we're supposed to help you."

"Then _help me_ get my job back."

"Why?"

"Wh—" Emmet can feel the blood straining to burst from his vessels. "Because if I have to spend another minute working customer service, I'm going to—" _Don't say kill yourself. Don't say lose it._ "—I'm not going to enjoy it." _Great save, Emmet. Give this guy a medal._

Clearly not impressed by his performance, Meagan adjusts her gold-rimmed glasses and starts to flip through her notes. "You may have thought I'd forgotten—"

_If only, Meagan._

"—but I recall you insinuating once that you were unsatisfied with your teaching job."

_What? How? When?_ Emmet grits his teeth. "Why would I say something like that?"

"Let's see…" She zeroes in on one particular page, jabbing her finger against the paper in a killing blow. "Here—August 6, 2018. I had asked how you felt now that the new school year was approaching and you wouldn't be able to return this semester, and you replied—and I quote—'Why not ask me if I miss selling my soul for a quick buck.'" Meagan shuts the book and looks up at him. "Does any of that ring a bell?"

_Shit. Shit. Fuck._ What the hell had he been thinking? "That's not—I meant—" He needs to find a way to turn this around fast. Before Meagan can gloat over her accomplishment. "How is that any different from what I'm doing now? I can't even tutor anymore because the parents don't want me around their kids and the kids won't stop laughing at me."

"From what I gather, it doesn't seem like you enjoyed teaching very much at all."

"I worked my ass off to get my doctorate," he spits back. "I should have a fellowship at a university, not teaching Introductory Chem to a bunch of kids who can't tell the Periodic Table from a beer pong table and are only in the class because they think they'll learn how to blow shit up."

"So…what I'm hearing is, you think you deserve better?"

"I— _fuck."_ He lowers his head again, rests his forehead in his palms. Breathes.

Maybe that question had been obvious once. But now Emmet doesn't know what he deserves. He supposes it's this—sitting helpless on an expensive sofa while he pays a pseudo-sadist to poke him with a stick until he pops. It certainly feels like he's earned it.

"Don't beat yourself up over it, Mr. Ellis." Meagan's voice comes as a soothing afterthought, too little to help, too late for an apology. "I don't think anyone would fault you for wanting more."

"What would you know about it?" he asks somberly.

"Believe it or not, I didn't get here until I was into my forties."

Slowly, Emmet lifts his gaze, so he isn't talking to his knees. "What did you do before this?"

"I grew up working at my parent's dry cleaning business. Since I was fourteen." She smiles then as if recalling a fond memory, one that hadn't been rooted in child labor. "I finished high school but by the time I reached college age, the American Dream was deemed both overrated and over-budget. I was the youngest of six, so I understood where they were coming from."

"But you obviously got your degree," Emmet points out.

"I ran that business for twenty years after my parents passed away. In that time I got married, raised four children, got divorced, stayed divorced. But no matter how impossible it seemed, I always kept my eye on what I wanted to accomplish in life. I didn't care how long it took me."

"What about your kids?" He asks, seeking some kind of loophole, a reason to stave off his empathy. "Did you expect them to waste half their lives working at the dry cleaner's too?"

Meagan's smile only grows brighter. "My oldest is a pediatric nurse and my youngest paints murals for charity. If you're still concerned about the business, you can talk to my son and daughter-in-law. They were more than eager to become their own bosses."

"I...." The words are there on the tip of his tongue, but Emmet's heart keeps drawing them back, unwilling to admit that it was wrong.

"You see, Mr. Ellis," Meagan says, "it's all about making the best of what you've got. Sure, your life may not be where you want it to be, but you can still allow yourself to enjoy where you are now. You don't need to be ashamed of how far you have to go."

"Right. It's the journey and not the destination, or something like that. Got any more greeting card analogies up your sleeve?"

But his resentment is for naught; they both know which of the two has come out the winner here. Emmet doesn't need to look into Meagan's smiling eyes to tell.

"Why don't we move on to another topic? You said last week you and Ms. Dawkins were going to a social event. How did that go?"

"Fine," Emmet mumbles.

"Did you take any photographs? I know how dedicated you are to your hobby, carrying that thing practically everywhere."

He looks down at his shoes and envisions the bus stop, empty now that he'd stolen the red-haired man away from it. "No. I wasn't in the mood for taking photos."

 

"Yes. Yes, I understand. No, ma'am, I was not trying to patronize you when I suggested that you turn your router off and then back on again." For what feels like the millionth time in the span of an hour, Emmet catches himself checking the clock on his monitor while yet another irate customer rambles on about topics that have nothing to do with phone, television or internet.

_3:58. Shit._ The day has been dragging on ever since he got back from his requisite torture session with Meagan. And if that weren't sufficient enough to achieve prime mental exhaustion, Emmet could always rely on himself to finish the job. It's only been a few hours, but every sight and sound, each twitch of muscle sends his brain throbbing inside his skull, begging to be put out of its misery, or at least administered a strong sedative. Maybe throw in a second one for the woman on the other line. And a third for his cellphone, currently vibrating on the desk beside him like a sex toy in overdrive.

"Guess which beautiful bastard just sold four platinum packages in a row?" Shouts a voice halfway across the room, followed by a weak orchestra of golf claps. Emmet rushes to cover his open ear, because they're only paying him enough to go half-deaf and the woman currently shrieking into the other is doing exemplary work when it comes to that.

"Yes, ma'am, I understand you're paying good money for high-speed internet...No, actually I haven't been sleeping well lately...Yes, I'll transfer you." Once the banshee has been handed over to the all-powerful management gods, Emmet shoves back in his chair and tosses his headset to the desk. "I'm going on break," he announces, to no one in particular. Then he grabs his cell and makes a beeline for the break room.

It's both empty and quiet, save for the hum of the vending machines, but those are far easier to tune out than the corporate wasteland that lurks beyond the door. Besides, Emmet can't stay mad at them, not since they started stocking his favorite brand of potato chips. He buys a bag and sits at the table to enjoy them, though whether the same can be said about the texts in his inbox remains doubtful at best.

There are seven messages, all from Deedee. Because of course they would be.

**D:** _Hey_  
**D:** _Hey Em_  
**D:** _Em_  
**D:** _Emmet_  
**D:** _Emmet_  
**D:** _EMMET  
_ **D:** _PICK UP YOUR PHONE ASS_

Emmet sighs and punches a short _What?_ Instantly, he sees the three little dots pop up, like Deedee had been standing there with her finger on the button the whole time.

**D:** _Happy Hump Day!_

_Really?_

**E:** _It's Monday, Dee. Do I need to buy you another calendar for Christmas?_  
**D:** _Will there be cats on said calendar?_  
**E:** _No, it'll be old men in various stages of undress._  
**D:** _Even better._  
**D:** _Oh, I got the booze for Wednesday night btw.  
_ **D:** _We still doing your place?_

_Yes. No._ The answer doesn't have to be complicated or laced with sarcasm or following on the heels of a stupid joke, as things were wont to be with them. But as Emmet thinks back to the weekend and the promise he'd made to tell Deedee about the jacket, he feels an odd lump settle in his throat, the same apprehension gripping him as when he'd awoken from his dream. He looks down at the phone, pictures her waiting on the other end.

_Yes or no._

**E:** _Yes._  
**E:** _There's something I want to show you._  
**D:** _Ooh does it have anything to do with a deviled egg cannon?_  
**E:** _It's something I found in my closet._  
**D:** _You mean to tell me you didn't take everything with you when you came out of the closet?  
_ **E:** _Very funny, Dee._

Just then, the door swings open and in strolls Tom Thomson, self-proclaimed salesperson extraordinaire, though when Emmet looks at him all he sees is a portly, forty-something man with graying hair and an eyepatch he'd gotten after being hit with shrapnel during Desert Storm, if his rambling stories were worth believing. He shoots an enthusiastic finger-gun at Emmet as he makes his way over to the soda dispenser. "Emmet, my man! What's shakin'?"

**E:** _I gotta go. Text you later._

"Hey, Tom," Emmet replies before the silence has a chance to grow awkward. He doesn't really want to say anything else, let alone flesh out whatever might be "shakin'" in his life at the present moment. But Tom is a coworker, so he figures the least he can do is try to force something polite. "So...four platinum packages, huh?"

"You know it." Tom raises his can in a toast to his glory. "That's four less people illegally downloading _Game of Thrones_ this month. Pretty good for a Monday, eh?"

"You...um...you're really good at selling things."

"You're damn right! I could sell penguins to an Eskimo."

Emmet doesn't understand why Eskimos would be looking to buy penguins—maybe for a petting zoo?—but he's not in the mood to start a potential argument with a guy he barely talks to on a good day. Besides, there's something else that's been digging at his mind. And though it might be a long shot, Emmet decides to take a chance. "Hey, do you mind if I ask you something?"

"Pointers, huh? I'm all ears."

"Did you…" Emmet treads lightly, takes a second to consider his phrasing. "What did you do before you worked here?"

"I was at another call center. Had the highest sales of all-natural male enhancement pills the company'd ever seen. 'Til the FDA shut us down." He grumbles the last part against the lip of his soda can, throws in a "bastards" for good measure before his mood rebounds. "And before that I sold insurance."

"So you're happy with this? You never wanted to get into marketing, or have a management position? Or at least upgrade to a car dealership?"

"Are you kidding?" Tom laughs. "I get to sit on my ass all day selling cable TV while that sweet commission bonus rolls in. Hell, I don't even have to worry about dressing nice. I could drip mustard all over my shirt and none of the customers would ever see it." He pulls at the fabric of his yellow golf shirt and shoots a quizzical look at Emmet. "I did drip a little on my shirt during lunch today. Can you tell?"

Emmet squints. "No...maybe?"

"Eh, I guess it's no big deal." He smoothes a hand over the front of his shirt, takes another sip of his drink before saying, "Hey, you're coming to Happy Hour Thursday, right? "

**Happy Hour**  
_noun_  
1\. a post-work function involving alcohol and conversation that is neither happy nor limited to a term of sixty minutes or less  
2\. a good reason to tell coworkers your grandmother has tragically passed

"Oh, um...well, my grand—"

"Great!" Tom beams. "About time you came out and had a couple drinks with the rest of us. Some of the others were starting to think you weren't a team player."

That statement isn't entirely true; Emmet had joined the chess team once when he was in high school, his tenure lasting a whole week until he tripped on the way to his seat during a competition and ended up knocking the table off the stage. Twenty years later and he still can't look at a pawn without cringing. "Y-Yeah, sure. I'll be there for a little bit."

"It'll be a blast, trust me. You're partying with the King of Sales here." His drink finished, Tom emphatically crushes the can in his fist and chucks it towards the recycling can in the corner, which he misses by a mile.

"I'll get it," Emmet tells him. "You just get back to selling your penguins to an Eskimo."

"You got it, pal." And with that, Tom finger-guns his way out the door.

 

 

Pickle O'Reilly's—which Emmet soon learns has absolutely nothing to do with Irish strippers—reads as a fairly decent pub from the outside: Long bar, spacious interior, not terribly crowded for a weeknight, though it is only Tuesday, and Deedee had once told him that all the good drunks don't come out until Wednesday at the earliest. Granted, it had probably been just another ploy to get him to knock back a few drinks with her during the work week, but Emmet isn't discounting anything; this time around, he's going to be prepared. And when he walks into Meagan's office next Monday with his head held high and calmly tells her how well he'd "coped ahead" with the situation, she'll be so impressed to have finally taught him something, she'll demand his credentials be reinstated immediately.

_Right._ If he were any more delusional, Emmet might think he's the astronaut in the Parsecs Brewing logo that glows on the wall above the bar, burning neon streaks into his retinas. Blinking them away, he leaves the bar and crosses over to the park opposite it.

It's not as big as the one that edges the river uptown, but it's nice by city standards. Beyond its squat brick walls—a generous donation from the Lamott family, according to the plaque by the entrance—Emmet finds a neat arrangement of wooden benches, some resting beside lamp poles, others shrouded in darkness from the trees above, all welcome options had he the need to step out and gather his thoughts for a moment. The fountain in the center has already been drained for winter, but Emmet thinks it could still make for a good picture, if he can get past the dead-eyed stare of the cherubs holding up the bowl.

Creepy statues aside, he's rather pleased with what he's accomplished tonight. He might even have to thank Tom for his choice in drinking establishments, even if it did have a name worthy of an internet meme.

Now, all he has to do is wait until Thursday.

Two blocks into his walk to the bus stop, the wind starts to pick up, and Emmet is forced to duck his head and clutch his coat tighter in order to brave the chill. The knockoff Burberry trench coat performs about as well as he'd expected, and yet, as the cold pierces straight through to his skin, he wonders if Deedee had been right all along. Maybe the solution does lie in eating more cheeseburgers. Or maybe she only suggests that so she can steal his fries.

The latter, he thinks, shivering, is definitely more believable.

 

 

"Holy...Wait, wait—keep your arms up. Now turn around and let me see the back again."

Heaving a sigh that he hopes will haunt Deedee in her sleep, Emmet does a 180 and awaits further instruction.

So what if he hadn't "coped ahead" for this? After a solid five-plus years of co-starring in the _Deedee Dawkins Variety Hour,_ he'd counted himself more than prepared to deal with whatever might come his way. "Hey Dee, have I ever told you how much I enjoy being able to feel my arms?"

_Prepared._ Not _willing._

Behind him, he hears Deedee snort into her drink. "And you better not spill anything on my bed."

"I'm sorry, Em, I—I just—" Her words are cut with hiccuping laughter. "I swear you could fit another three of you into one of those sleeves. We could—could make a magic trick out of it. Perform at—bar mitzvahs."

"Alright, fashion show's over," Emmet announces as he lets his arms drop to his sides, the jacket effortlessly starting to slip from his shoulders. A quick shrug finishes the job and he tosses it over to the bed, where it lands just beside Deedee. "If you want to get your rocks off at someone else's expense," he says, retrieving his drink from atop the dresser, "you better start looking for a substitute. Because I'm taking it to the thrift store this weekend."

"What?" Deedee gawks at him like he'd just announced French roast was overrated. "Are you kidding? I've never seen something so cool." She flicks the star patch on the jacket's sleeve. "It's even got its own merit badges."

"It's useless, Dee. I can't even wear it without it falling halfway off."

"You know what I think would solve the problem here?" Deedee says, and takes a long, satisfying sip from her glass.

"Please do tell."

She snaps her fingers at him. "Shoulder implants."

Emmet snaps right back. "No."

"Fine. What do I know?" Pouting, she lifts one of the sleeves by its cuff and flops it back and forth. "I mean, I've only seen _most_ of the coats you've worn. Why trust me when I say this is probably one of your nicer purchases?"

That familiar lump rises up inside Emmet's throat again. He tries to drown it with a hearty swig of his beverage, though with the way Deedee tends bar, he'd probably be safer swallowing straight turpentine. "Actually," he coughs, "I'm not sure I did buy it. That is, I don't remember buying it."

"Hey! Hey!" Coat sleeve still flapping in the breeze, Deedee points her other hand at him, shakes the glass so the liquid sloshes up against its walls. "We do not get depressed over drunken online purchases in this house, young man."

"No offense, Dee—" Well, maybe a little. "—but getting blasted and going on an internet shopping spree is something you would be more inclined to do."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Deedee admits with a sigh, shifting around on the bed so she's sitting with one leg tucked under her and the jacket half-draped across her lap. "But like I said, there's no shame in it. How else would I have ended up with ol' Rockabilly Red here?" Flashing a smile, she points to the red and white polka-dot bandana on her head. "I mean, I'm pretty sure that's how she got into my drawer." She raises her glass in a toast—possibly to her lack of restraint, definitely to her eclectic fashion sense—drains the rest of it and then places it on the floor. "So...we're going with stone sober at the thrift store in your case?"

Emmet shrugs. "Maybe? I was hoping you might know. Have you ever seen me wearing it?"

"Oh, believe me," she sniggers, "you'd remember if I caught you in that thing."

_True._ Deedee always did have a way with words. Words that would cling to a person's brain like a thirsty leech. "So where else could it have come from?"

"Hmm…" Holding the jacket up by the shoulders, Deedee scans it from top to bottom. "One of your exes left it behind? Maybe Frank or Damon?"

"I don't think Frank was around long enough to leave anything behind. And Damon...he…" He stops himself just short of chewing a hole through his cheek. "Damon wasn't thin but he wasn't huge either."

"So the consensus is you've never fucked the Hulk?"

Emmet rolls his eyes. "No but would you care to hear about my affair with the Jolly Green Giant?"

"Emmet, please try to take this seriously. I'm just trying to help."

_"Well_ —" Emmet would pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration if he hadn't remembered how much he hates leaving fingerprints on his glasses. "Why don't you tell me what you think happened?"

"OK, the way I see it is this: You go to the club—"

"I don't go to clubs."

"—you get wasted—"

"No."

"—you pick up this mammoth of a guy, bring him home for a night of sweet debauchery—"

"Yeah, that wouldn't happen."

"—he leaves the next morning without his coat, which you keep hold of in case you ever run into someone who is a perfect fit for it."

He stares blankly. "So we're going with stone sober at the thrift store, then?"

Deedee gives a disappointed hum and flips the jacket over, wrinkling her nose at the lettering on the back. "What's 'BRONCO' mean? Is that a designer?"

"I don't know. Probably some sports thing."

"Didn't Damon like sports?"

"Not really. He watched half of a professional bowling tournament once before he got bored and asked the bartender to switch to _Jeopardy."_

"So…" She holds up a fist, uncurls each finger as she begins to count off: "Sports thing, no drunk shopping, never dated the the Hulk…" Her pinky twitches, caught on the string of a breakthrough. Or so Emmet hopes. "You said you can't remember wearing it, right? And you don't know how long it's been in your closet?"

"When I said I found it, I meant just that. All of my other jackets and sweaters are on hangers, and my shoes are by the front door. But this—it was like someone had hidden it on purpose. There was no reason for me to look for it in the first place."

Deedee returns to her musing, pinky finger still outstretched, grazing her bottom lip. Emmet waits, watches her deliberate with a pinprick of nervous excitement. "Well?"

"Yeah...wait a sec…"

He holds his breath.

She shrugs. "Nope, I got nothing."

Of course. Emmet doesn't know why he'd been expecting anything of relevance. "Strong work, Dee," he sighs and swallows another sip of his drink.

"Great. That'll be twenty dollars cash or credit for my services, and also can I take a look at your photo album?"

Now _that_ he hadn't been expecting. Nor had he expected his palms to start sweating, or his stomach to clench in apprehension. "Why? There's no photos of Damon or the jacket in there. I checked it a few days ago."

"Maybe I just want to see how well I've aged."

"Aged or matured?" Emmet chuckles nervously, leaning against the dresser with his arm resting on top.

"Hey," she says, "you want me to solve your jacket mystery, right? Well it doesn't hurt to have a second set of eyes."

She is right about one thing; it never hurts to get a second opinion. At least, it _shouldn't_ hurt. Deedee had seen the album on multiple occasions. She's his friend, someone he trusts. So why does the thought of her poking around inside it bother him so much?

"Sure," he quickly recovers. "Knock yourself out, Velma."

"All-riiight!" Deedee slings the jacket over her shoulders and all but vaults over to the closet.

"Oh, and don't touch—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, don't touch the boxes," she complains as she kneels down and seizes the photo album. "Y'know, my dad had a secret box too, only it was full of hairy 80s porn, and not a bunch of artsy nudes."

"They're not nudes," Emmet argues. "They're...part of a project I'm working on."

"Look, Em, I get it. You don't need to feel ashamed of your sophisticated arthouse pornography. Something for everyone, right?" Paying no mind to his irritated groan, Deedee grins and gestures to the space across from her. "Wanna reminisce with me?"

"Fine. But only because you called my photography sophisticated."

"Sweet, let's do this!" She beams as Emmet takes his seat on the carpet. "First stop: Selfie City!"

"You know, I heard that place went out of business."

"Oh? What killed it?"

He laughs against the rim of his glass. "Millennials."

"Emmet Ellis, did you just make a joke?" Deedee's voice bristles with pleasant disbelief. "Are you in a good mood today, or did I mix your drink too strong?"

"You mixed my drink too strong. I don't think my cells have membranes anymore."

"Meh, membranes are overrated," she says, flipping to the next page. "Oh hey, it's the beach. Aw, look—Galaga." Her eyes glimmer wistfully, and she gazes up at Emmet like a child about to ask Mall Santa for a pony. "Do you think 'ASS' beat my high score again?"

"I—guess we'll find out next year." At least when Mall Santas lie, they do it with poise and grace, unlike Emmet, who stares at the half-finished drink in his hand in guilty resignation.

With everything that had happened this year, he hadn't been in much of a mood for vacationing. So Deedee had surprised him with a pail of sand and every tropical-flavored pancake IHOP served, and together they sat on the living room floor, stuffing their faces while they watched reruns of _Beach Bar Rescue: Miami._ She'd joked that this could become their new tradition, and though Emmet had been too full of self-pity and banana-bacon pancakes to register it at the time, the longer he lets those words sink in, the more his heart aches at the prospect of Deedee wasting her happiness on him. How often had she kept him company when he couldn't be moved to leave the apartment? How many times had she smiled and joked in an attempt to get his spirits up. Sure, she could be pushy at times, and a little annoying, but she'd stuck by him through the good and the bad. And what thanks had he given her in return? He hadn't even wanted her to touch his album.

His chest throbs with remorse. "H-Hey, Dee—"

"That's weird...this one's not ringing a bell."

"Huh?" Startled, Emmet looks up and sees her pointing at the photo of them at his birthday party. "It looks like my thirty-third birthday. We were...at the Iron Fence?"

"Oh, yeah, right." She taps a spot near the corner of the image. "'Cause they got all those fences on the walls. Real hipster crap. But the food is pretty good. Hey, we should go back there soon. Get you a couple cheeseburgers."

"Yeah, sure." He can hear the echo of his voice, the soft chuckle Deedee gives at her own joke, but it's little more than background noise, buried in a haze of shapes and colors: _Black fence, blue shirt, orange cake, red candles._ Pieces that don't add up, no matter how hard Emmet stares at them. "I...don't think I remember us taking this one, either."

"Hmm?" Deedee freezes with her thumb and forefinger grasping the edge of the page and checks the picture again. "Must've been one hell of a party if we both can't remember it," she grins, moving on to the next page without further comment, as if the answer had always been that simple.

Then why does Emmet feel like he's choking on his own thoughts?

It's not the restaurant. They'd eaten there before; Deedee was right when she said the food was good. And he still wears that shirt on occasion—it's the only one he has that's missing a top button. So why can't he recall the rest? What is it that he's not seeing?

Wait, did he—did he actually get drunk and take someone home with him? "Dee, do you remember who was with us that night?"

"At the party?" She asks, still flip-flipping away. "I guess it was just the two of us."

"But you always make me bring someone. It's just—" How can Emmet put this? "It's what you do. It's your awkward version of a ménage-a-trois, where everyone eats cake and pretends they're enjoying themselves."

Deedee immediately ceases her page-turning and shoots him a hooded glare. "Well, maybe he caught wind of your attitude and decided to fly solo for the night. It's not like you have any photos of your boyfriends in here for me to compare. You barely have any photos in here at all." Lips clamped in an angry line, she holds the book up, gestures to the vacant slots for maximum shaming potential.

There's a viable excuse for this kicking around somewhere in Emmet's brain, something he likes to think he'd had at the ready, something even Deedee—with her fairly-accurate bullshit detector—would be inclined to accept. He swallows, puts on a confident face. "I'm—saving it."

"For what?" Laughs Deedee. "Marriage?"

_"No,"_ he sneers. "For important things."

"Let me show you this modern miracle, Em. It's called a photo album. Contrary to popular belief, you don't need to travel to the lost city of Atlantis to buy one. You can get a dozen of them at Target for five bucks each and display your photos the way god intended."

Alright, now she's just insulting him. "Well, maybe it's not my thing."

"You know," Deedee says, shutting the book with a loud clap, "This is why you always had so much trouble getting your grades submitted on time. Because you're too stubborn to admit how disorganized you are."

"I'm not disorganized," Emmet contends. "I just do things a different way."

"Fine, maybe you're not disorganized. But you sure as hell are too stubborn to listen to advice."

With an undignified huff, he throws back the rest of his drink, too irritated to care about stripping away whatever's left of his esophagus. "You sound like my therapist. Are you going to start charging me for this advice?"

"I'm gonna start you off with a freebie. If you want to find out where you got this jacket from, then you should probably check in your shoeboxes over there. Because this—" she taps the album cover, "—was a bust. And that being said, I need another drink." Emmet watches her toss the book aside and climb to her feet, amazed by how she somehow manages to keep the jacket draped over her shoulders without using her hands. "You coming?"

"Yeah. Right behind you." But Emmet doesn't move. And it has nothing to do with the stinging needles in his legs or the sudden weight of the glass in his hand, the questions that pin him down, flicker behind his eyes like the candles on his cake, or Deedee's smile, or the stars on the jacket's tattered patch. He stays because he wants to. Because he can't watch Deedee walk away with those letters written on her back without remembering how he'd reached for them, how he'd felt when he begged them not to go.

"Emmet?"

"Coming." His thoughts can wait; Deedee can't. So he leaves them behind with the album, gathers both their glasses and heads for the door, only to find Deedee blocking his path, the jacket pulled tight around her.

"You know, this thing _is_ pretty warm. Maybe you should take it out for a spin before you get rid of it."

"I'll think about it," he says, though his decision remains unchanged.

"Hey, there's gotta be a reason you held on to it, right?"

But when Emmet looks it over, he sees no reason. Only a face steeped in shadow. A moment just beyond his grasp.

"I'll think about it."

 

Later that night, after Deedee has left, Emmet stays up and sifts through some of the photos in his boxes—the ones in the top shoebox, only a few years old if memory serves him. Damon is in there with his damned acoustic guitar, and so is Fashion-Emergency Frank, and Aaron with the crooked teeth, buried under parks and bridges, trees and train platforms, various bar signage, the faded brick of the high school where Emmet had once taught. He gets through about half of the contents before he succumbs to exhaustion and puts the box away.

There is no jacket, not as far as Emmet can tell. However it had gotten there, whoever might have left it, simply didn't exist in the mishmash of the world he'd built.

When he falls asleep, he dreams about his thirty-third birthday party. There's a glowing light, heat radiating from the candles on his cake, Deedee's cheek pressed to his own. A feeling of happiness that had gone missing for too long. He smiles and looks straight ahead.

Someone is standing in front of him. Tall, broad-shouldered, too fuzzy for Emmet to make out their face or clothing, almost as if the image were being filtered through frosted glass. All he can see is a pair of large hands gripping the camera, and a bright orange plume behind that. Then, the flash goes off, and he wakes.

 

 

"Hey, Tom, mind if I take your picture?"

Tom spins around so fast, Emmet flinches fearing he'll end up with a face full of whiskey sour. "Do I mind? Hell, with a gorgeous mug like this, I'm surprised it took you so long to ask."

_Gorgeous_ is a stretch; _mug_ a little closer, though if Emmet had any say in describing Tom's level of attractiveness, he'd settle somewhere between _shot glass with boobs on it_ and _one of those t-shirts designed to look like a tuxedo._ From the smirks and chuckles that follow Tom's statement, he can tell he's not too far off the mark. He raises his camera. "OK, Tom. Ready?"

_"Waitwaitwait—"_ Tom interjects, seconds before Emmet is about to take the shot. "Make sure you get my good side."

"Yeah, the back side!" jokes one of the associates behind him, sending the rest of the sales team into a fit of raucous laughter. Emmet just stands there quietly and fiddles with the Spectra's switches until the back-slapping and finger-gunning reach a reasonable level.

"So…" He says, hoping to capture Tom's attention again. "Am I getting the eyepatch or—"

"Would you get a load of this guy?" Tom shouts to the team. "Emmet, I should make you come out with us all the time."

_Oh god please no._ There isn't enough film in the world to make that bearable. "All set?" he asks as he scrambles to hide his grimace behind the camera.

Thankfully, Tom is either too inebriated or too self-absorbed to notice. Drink held high, he grins and turns his head slightly to the right, though it doesn't do much to keep his eyepatch from sticking out like a sore thumb. Emmet assumes that's what he's going for and snaps the picture before anyone or anything else has the chance to interrupt.

"So, how'd it turn out?" Tom asks less than five seconds later.

"It'll be another minute. Y'know, ancient technology and all." He risks a chuckle, unsurprised when it falls flat. It had been a stupid joke after all, but at least Tom is still smiling quietly at him. Maybe a little too quiet for his comfort. "Umm...thanks?"

"Well, can I have it?"

It takes Emmet a moment to realize what Tom is asking, but once he does, he instinctively clutches the photo to his chest, as if it were something in need of protection. "Sorry, but this is mine." In response, Tom gives him that same odd look most people do when he asks for their photo, the kind that ponders aloud which kind of pervert he might be. But after so long at this, Emmet has come prepared. "It's for a project I'm working on. A blog-slash-collage I guess you could call it."

The lie works, but of course it would. Tom doesn't exactly come across as the most savvy guy on the planet, one-eyed or not. "Like a 'Humans of the City' sort of thing?"

Maybe, if there were no interesting people left in this city. "...Yeah."

"Well, make sure to write something nice about me, eh pal?" He grins again, managing to shoot Emmet a finger-gun around his drink.

"You got it...pal." Emmet gives a weak shot back at him then puts his things away, swiveling around in his seat so he's facing the bar. There's half a pint of beer left in front of him, just enough to nurse for another fifteen or twenty minutes so Tom and the rest of his coworkers can't complain that he hasn't stayed long enough. They're carrying on loudly in the background, and Emmet wonders if he might be able to sneak past them, if he gets on Tom's good side. He reaches under the bar and strokes one of the patches on the jacket's sleeve as he contemplates.

_Better not._ He'll give it another ten minutes before gracefully bowing out, thanking Tom for the invite and promising to see everyone at the office tomorrow. Standard Happy Hour etiquette, or so he assumes. Eager to leave, he gets back to work on his beer, idly scanning the room for an outlet from the noise surrounding him. Something more interesting than bland paper coasters.

At the far end of the bar, Emmet finds what he'd been looking for. More so, what he _hadn't_.

Standing around a high top with four other men is the burly redhead from the bus stop. The one whose photo he'd stolen not even a full week ago. He's wearing faded jeans and a plain white t-shirt, and combined with the lights at the bar, Emmet is granted a generous glimpse of his well-defined muscles. Just looking at them sends a shiver down his spine, makes his pulse spike without permission. He's finally convinced himself to turn away when the man suddenly shifts his gaze and locks eyes with him. It lasts for all of a second before Emmet breaks contact, but one second had been more than enough.

_Five more minutes_. He can do this. He doesn't need to look again.

But he does; a quick glance out of the corner of his eye, then a few longer ones, nothing too suspicious. The man is talking and laughing with his friends, running a hand through his hair at awkward intervals, and Emmet hadn't realized how vibrant the color was until now, or how pale and youthful his skin looked, or how his eyebrows seemed to grow together into one thick, bushy line.

He stops before he's caught again. Guzzles the rest of his beer and pulls his jacket from the hook beneath the bar. "Hey, Tom, thanks for the invite," he says, turning to the group. "I gotta run home to do laundry now. See you at work tomorrow?"

"Bright and early, you know it," Tom laughs. "Now go on and get outta here. You're gonna be running loads all night just to shrink that thing."

"Say what you want," Emmet jokes as he zips up the jacket, "but at least it's warm." He reaches down for his bag, and then, against his better judgment, throws one last look back at the red-haired stranger.

The man is staring dead at him, his brow knit into a furry crease, feral gaze vicious enough to draw blood. There's no denying who its target is, and Emmet can almost feel the fangs closing around his throat when he sees him leave the table and start to weave his way over.

_Oh. Oh shit._

In a panic, Emmet pushes through half of sales and a fair number of accounting, any strangers unlucky to be caught in the path of his escape.

"Hey!" comes a shout behind him. "Hey, stop!"

_Fuck, he knows. He saw me take the photo. How could I have been so stupid?_

He's almost made it to the hostess station when someone catches him by the wrist and yanks hard. Stumbling backwards, he spins around and finds himself face-to-face with the man's white-hot glare. "Where'd you get that jacket?" he growls.

Emmet's heart races into overdrive. "I-I don't know. I found it."

His answer only serves to make him angrier. "Found it where?"

"My—My c-closet."

"What was it doin' in yer closet?"

"I don't know! I-I swear!" Desperate, he tries to pull away, but the man tightens his grip, undeterred by the crowd of onlookers that have gathered around them. "Please," he begs, "just let me go."

"Not until you tell me where ya got it."

_"Why does it matter?"_

"Because it's _mine."_

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have seen a lot of therapists in my life, and I doubt I would be keeping any that had half of Meagan's attitude. 
> 
> If you like it so far, drop me a comment or come chat with me on [tumblr.](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com)


	3. Take Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **RATING AND TAGS HAVE BEEN UPDATED**
> 
> This is where it starts to get dirty, folks. Please enjoy responsibly.
> 
> CW for panic attacks/slight dubcon.

"I'm sorry."

They're the first words the man has spoken since suggesting they talk outside—a feeble apology whispered down at his hands, though at this point Emmet would have taken anything over the unbearable stretch of silence that had come to span the two feet of park bench between them. "I didn't mean t'scare ya back there," he continues, fingers flexing in a way that makes Emmet's stomach attempt to twist itself into a balloon animal. "I was jus' shocked, I guess. Seein' ya in my jacket."

"It—It's OK." Not really, not by a long shot. But Emmet doesn't know what else to say, and at least out here he can pretend he's only shaking because of the cold.

The man casts a side-eyed glance at him, his profile streaked with the same guilt he'd shown just before he'd let him go. "Did I—did I hurt ya?"

 _Mentally? Yes. Physically?_ Emmet reaches for his sore wrist and lightly massages it through the fabric. "N-No," he lies. "You mostly got the sleeve."

"Good. That's not who I am, in case yer thinkin'."

No, he doesn't need to think it. Not after that.

"I'm not a bad guy," insists the man. "I swear, I—" He turns his head completely now, and Emmet can't help but wish his eyes were a little less sad, a little less desperate for forgiveness. "You really don't know how ya got it?"

 _The panic attack? Oh, he's talking about the jacket._ "No, I—I-It just kind of showed up in my closet one day." Tugging on the cuff of his sleeve, he considers what he should say next, which careful choice of words will be safe enough not to set the man off. "How—How long have you noticed it missing?"

"A while. More'n a year, maybe."

 _A year?_ In that time, the jacket could have made its way to Santa Fe and back again. "But I only found it recently. I don't know where it was before that." Definitely not in his closet. "Do you think there's a chance you may have—" he swallows, "—accidentally donated it to a thrift shop? Maybe it got mixed into a bag with some other clothes?"

"No. No way," the man replies emphatically. "Me an' that jacket been through a lot together. No way I'd ever do somethin' so reckless. I got sick to my stomach just thinkin' I'd never see it again."

Now that Emmet's heart has stopped thundering in his ears, he begins to notice how different the man's voice sounds from what he'd heard inside the bar—not gruff or gravelly as one might expect from the sight of him, but a touch softer, and dusted with a slight Southern twang. "There's gotta be another reason," he says. _"Anythin'."_

Emmet stops to think, turning each piece of the puzzle carefully to see what fits. "What if it's not the same jacket? They must have made more—"

"It's _one of a kind."_

Emmet hesitates. "Are you sure?"

The man scoffs at his question. "Yeah I'm sure. That's my name on the back. Got it painted on by a carny at the County Fair when I was eighteen."

Completely disregarding any possibility that this guy could have been as stacked at the age of eighteen as he is now, _what did he say?_ "Your name is _Bronco?"_

"My last name. First name's Baby."

 _Great_. This checks off all the right squares on Emmet's _What the Fuck is Going on Here_ Bingo card:

 **-Uncomfortable eye contact**  
**-Minor assault**  
**-Mystery clothing**  
**-An adult man named "Baby"**

and

**-The inexplicable urge to ignore his intuition and attempt to show said man some politeness**

Trembling, he holds out his hand. "I'm Emmet. Emmet Ellis."

Baby regards his offer with a curious expression, reaching for it as though he were about to shake the leg of a spider. "Nice t'meet ya, I guess."

His hand is warm despite the chill, gentle despite being studded with so many rough calluses. Emmet releases his grip and pulls back slowly, so Baby can't tell how bothered he is by the surprisingly delicate touch. "Same. I guess."

Their introductions complete, the two sit there quietly again, Baby eventually breaking the silence with, "D'you live around here?"

"Huh?" A thousand questions race through Emmet's head. "Wh-Why?"

"It's just…" Baby shifts his eyes away for a moment. "I never seen you at the bar 'til tonight. And I'm there about every week."

 _OK, that answer seems innocent enough_. Emmet supposes it won't hurt to tell the truth. "No. I only work close by."

"Me too. Funny we haven't run into each other before," he says with a nervous laugh. "Maybe we will now."

 _So much for being charitable._ "I doubt it," Emmet responds. "I don't really go out with coworkers much. You probably wouldn't have even noticed me unless—" _you caught me staring_ "—I was wearing your jacket."

Baby's gaze sinks back to his lap. "Yeah...You're prob'ly right."

Of course he is. If he hadn't listened to Deedee and worn the damned thing outside, none of this would have happened. He could be home right now, safe and warm in his bed instead of shivering on a park bench while a strange man struggles to make awkward conversation.

 _Wait._ Maybe the answer to his problem had been obvious all along.

Removing the bag from his shoulder, he lifts his numb fingers and starts to unzip the jacket.

"Wait, what're ya doin'?" Baby asks.

"I'm giving you back your jacket."

"Are ya nuts? You'll freeze to death."

If he does at least he knows to haunt Deedee for it. "I'll be fine. The bus stop isn't far from here."

"Look, it's OK. You don't have t'give it back right now."

Emmet has half the mind to throw it at him and walk away, if only he were braver and could get the zip down fast enough. "But I told you I would." Well, maybe not so much _told_ as _whimpered pathetically_ while attempting to remove it one-handed in front of a crowd of gawking bar patrons. "You want it back, so—"

"Really," Baby insists, "it can wait. It's not that big a deal."

 _Seriously?_ "Just—" The zipper snags on his shirt, halfway there. "—let me do this."

"Emmet, _stop."_

The sound of his name stills Emmet's hand. The foolish decision to raise his head and look into Baby's eyes makes his fingers forget their function completely. He frowns, opens his mouth to protest, but Baby cuts him off before he can make a peep.

"I already ruined yer night," he says in a whisper. "I don't wanna make it worse."

Is that even possible? At this point Emmet thinks freezing his ass off on the way to the bus stop could be the highlight of his evening. Better than sitting there feeling sorry for the guy who had been ready to throttle him over a stupid coat. But he nods regardless, in hopes it will finally be enough to put this to rest. "Sure. Some other time, then."

No sooner have the words left his lips than he realizes the colossal mistake he's just made.

_Fuck. Fuck, what the hell is wrong with me? Now Baby will think—_

But it's too late; in the time it takes for Emmet to get his head on straight, Baby has already pulled out his phone and opened the lock screen. "Can I get yer number?"

 _Fine. It's fine._ Emmet has been here before. Well, not quite _here,_ but he has had strangers ask him out on occasion. This is basically the same thing, only he has to come up with a more creative way of saying No. _My phone is broken. I don't believe in modern technology. I only make calls on a tin can attached to a string._ Call it a hunch, but Baby doesn't appear to be a rocket scientist; a guy who wears only a t-shirt outside in the cold might buy anything. "Actually—"

"Or if ya don't wanna, we can jus' meet at the bar this weekend and you can bring my jacket then." Glancing up from the screen, he flashes Emmet a shy smile. "I can buy ya a drink. T'make up for all the trouble I caused."

"Give me your phone," Emmet commands, all but snatching it away once Baby holds it out to him. There's a disconnect between his brain and his fingers that he embraces foolheartedly, a promise that this will only steal a moment of his life. Then, he can delete Baby's number and it'll be like this whole mess had never happened.

He waits for his own phone to vibrate in his jeans pocket before passing Baby's back, careful to keep their fingers from touching. "Here, I sent a text so we'll have each other's numbers. We can arrange a time and place to drop off the jacket." He makes sure to emphasize the _drop off_ part. "Sound good?"

"Works for me," Baby says, and Emmet swears he can see him smile down at his phone before he puts it away.

He shudders. "Good. Then I should probably get going."

"Yeah, same here. The guys are prob'ly wonderin' where I'm at by now."

"Mmhmm." The guys can keep him. All Emmet wants to do is crawl into bed and pull the covers over his head until he suffocates. Standing, he grabs his things, then proceeds to walk away without pause for goodbyes.

"Oh, hey," Baby calls after him. "Hang on a sec—"

Emmet regrets not putting his earbuds in before leaving; if he had, maybe he could get away without turning around. "Yeah?"

"Do you wanna borrow my gloves too?" Baby asks. "I got a pair in my other jacket I could grab for ya. They're cheap but they get the job done."

Is this some kind of joke? Or had he stumbled upon Mother Teresa with muscles? "No thanks. I'll just stick my hands in my pockets." Hooking his bag over his shoulder, he heads off again—for good this time.

"Hey, Emmet?"

_Christ, now what? "Yeah?"_

"I'll see you later?" Baby's innocent tone makes it sound more question than statement, words full of such hopefulness they make Emmet's blood boil.

"Sure," he coughs, and hurries to make his exit before anything else has the opportunity to hold him back.

 

The bus ride home offers its usual comfort of being trapped in a box with an assortment of other rodents, each one avoiding eye contact while slurping down the same pockets of air. Only, instead of plugging in his headphones and joining in their oblivion, Emmet spends the trip gazing out the window as he clings to the phone in his coat pocket, in the off chance it might happen to ring—sooner, later, hopefully never. Wishful thinking, considering how Baby had looked at him right before he'd left, as if he were afraid Emmet might run off into the night with his jacket and he'd never see either of them again.

 _If only._ Though he could probably catch a Greyhound to Canada at dawn, if he had the balls to try to sneak across the border without a passport.

Sighing, Emmet releases the phone and brings his wrist close to his face, pushing the sleeve back with his free hand each time it stubbornly tries to envelop his bruises. They'll be there whether he sees them or not, burned into his memory like Baby's sad eyes and the touch of his hand, questions of how an item so important had ended up in Emmet's possession in the first place. How Baby could have let something he cared so much about slip from his grasp.

He digs his hand into his pocket again and strokes the edge of the phone, holds his breath for a vibration that doesn't come. _Soon,_ he tells himself. _Just wait for it._ But when he gets back to his apartment, he plugs it in atop his bedside table without so much as glancing at the screen. And as he closes his eyes and welcomes another restless night of sleep, he pictures the message he'd written to Baby blinking across the backs of his lids, short and simple and unbearably complicated all at once:

_This is Emmet Ellis. I'm the guy who has your jacket._

 

"Hey, Emmet?"

The sound of his voice drifts in softly, far from the chill of the night, the whispers shared on a park bench under dull lights and dimmer stars. Emmet is hunched over the edge of the bed in his briefs, trying to bury his toes in the carpet through his socks, but upon hearing its echo, he slowly lifts his head and sits up straight. Even without glasses on, the world isn't too fuzzy for him to make out the figure standing just beyond his reach, that boyish face and broad shoulders, thick arms tangled in his undershirt as though he's suddenly forgotten how to undress himself. "You been awful quiet," the figure says. "Everythin' OK?"

"Yeah. Just thinking."

His smile is as warm and welcoming as Emmet remembers, better than the bus stop photo, the way he'd looked at him when he'd offered to buy him a drink. "'Bout what?"

Emmet grins back. "Nothing important. Just you."

 _"Phew._ For a sec there I thought it mighta been somethin' serious." He lets his shirt fall to the floor, strips off his belt next, unbuttons his jeans. Watches with a hooded gaze as Emmet trails his eyes over his form, from his taut pecs with their smattering of orange fuzz, down to his bulletproof abs, his meaty thighs, the obvious bulge that tents his underwear once he steps out of his pants. Emmet's fingers twitch atop his knees, longing to be anywhere else.

"Hey, Baby. Come here."

"Why?" Baby chuckles. "You done starin'?"

"No. But I can be for now."

Before Baby even starts to move, Emmet is reaching for him, impatient hands sliding over his hips, happy to capture whatever flesh they can. There isn't a single thing about his body that doesn't feel huge, impossibly _massive_ in Emmet's grasp, as if Emmet were embarking on a fool's quest to hold the oceans in his palm or cradle the Earth in his embrace. But rather than bow to discouragement, he dives in headfirst, lips seeking out Baby's stomach, moist and greedy and _famished_. A low groan from above sets his skin ablaze, fingers weave their way into his hair, each shiver that vibrates through their tips an enthusiastic cry of _more, more_. Following the curve of Baby's hip inward, he slides a hand to his crotch and fondles him through the fabric, his thumb immediately zeroing in on a slick spot.

"Wet already?" He murmurs, brushing the spot lightly. "Want me to make it worse?" With a gentle squeeze, he leans in and dips his tongue into Baby's navel, flicks it back and forth in demonstration.

"Fuck, Emmet," Baby moans. "You're so—"

"Bad?"

_"Good."_

Huffing a laugh, Emmet reaches for the elastic with his unoccupied hand and yanks it down just far enough to cover the base of Baby's shaft in teasing kisses. He's barely just begun but Baby is already twitching against his lips, skin peppered with goosebumps where Emmet's nose tickles his tuft of pubic hair. In a show of pity (and a bit of eagerness on his part), Emmet allows himself to be guided back to that sweet, damp patch, wider now, and much wetter. His mouth waters, nostrils flooding with the musk of Baby's arousal until he can taste it in the depths of his throat. He pecks a kiss to the tip, then, parting his lips, slowly drags his tongue over the soft cotton. With the sound of bliss ringing in his ears, and the delicious flavor of Baby's precome still fresh and tingling, he pushes back and shoots him a smile.

"There—my work here is done."

Baby's blue eyes flash in exasperation. "Y'know—" he gasps, "—I really hate you sometimes."

"What?" Emmet pouts innocently. "I never said—"

But there's no time to finish the thought; before Emmet can flinch, Baby slides his hands under his armpits and heaves him into the air, tossing him to the bed like a ragdoll. Emmet can barely hear the squeal of the springs over his own hysterical giggling, doesn't notice Baby climbing on top of him until his wrists are pried from his chest and pinned to the mattress above his head.

"No fair!" He shouts, feigning a struggle. "You're not allowed to do that."

"Ain't you one to talk?" Baby fires back.

"My bed, my rules."

Baby snorts indignantly. "What're ya gonna do? Kick me out?"

"Maybe."

For a moment they simply stare at each other, quiet save for the ragged hiss of their breath, the rush of Emmet's pulse through his veins, beating its intent against Baby's palms. He presses his lips together, sweeps his tongue between them. "Or you can kiss me and I'll let you off the hook."

The burst of laughter he gets in response has him frowning. "What's so funny?"

"Nothin', just—" Releasing his grip, Baby shifts over onto one side and props himself up on his elbow. "You're real shit at negotiatin', y'know."

 _"Please."_ Emmet flexes his wrists. "What would you have asked for? Pizza?"

"A blowjob an' breakfast tomorrow."

There's a stray curl draped over Baby's forehead that Emmet somehow hadn't noticed before, but now that he's seen it he finds it too enticing to resist sweeping back into place, if only for the pleasure of watching it fall again. "Alright, I guess you got me beat. Is it too late to change my list of demands?"

Fingertips graze the edge of his jaw, a touch that makes Emmet shiver in anticipation. "Well…since I feel kinda bad about it, I guess I can let ya have _one."_ He leans in and offers a devious smirk. "But I ain't gonna say which."

"Deal. In that case I'll take my eggs over easy."

They share a chuckle over his stupid joke, but just as Baby starts to close the gap, Emmet reaches up and presses two fingers to his lips.

"Wait—I want toast too."

The worried look in Baby's eyes slowly softens to a smile. "Shut up." And with that, he shoves forward and crushes their mouths together.

The kiss is rough at first—thirsty, demanding—but as Emmet's lips part and his fingers tangle in Baby's curls, it grows softer, more tender than anything he'd felt before. Baby's hands are rugged yet gentle, his movements strong yet reserved. He's a weight pushing him down, a force pulling him close, all smooth skin and rippling muscle and _power._ And he's sweet, so sweet, like too much syrup on a waffle, or marshmallows in cocoa, flavors Emmet never had a taste for until they were right there on the tip of his tongue, beckoning him to drink up. He lets out a long moan and deepens their kiss, clutches at Baby's shoulders, coils his legs around his waist. Feels him shudder the moment their clothed cocks grind together. And as strange as it seems, Emmet swears he's always known that Baby loves this, loves being so close to him they can barely move, barely breathe. Skin sticking, lungs burning when Baby finally drags his mouth away.

"What else?" He groans. "Tell me what ya want and I'll give it to ya."

Grinning breathlessly, Emmet swirls his fingers through the sweat coating the nape of Baby's neck. "I want bacon. Extra crispy."

Baby kisses below his jaw, past the hollow of his throat and back up again. "Then what?"

"Fresh-squeezed orange juice."

"Mmmh...and?"

"Ah—" He squirms when Baby suckles the skin behind his earlobe, where he likes it the most. "I want fruit and yogurt. And granola."

"Yeah?" A nip to his neck. A trail of kisses along his collarbone. A tug of teeth on one nipple, tongue sweeping in to soothe the sting away. "Keep goin'."

"A-A-And—" Emmet can't keep his legs up any longer, doesn't really want to with the path Baby is headed down, those moist lips smothering his stomach, growing closer and closer to where he needs them to be. "And I want English muffins. Pancakes. French toast." He groans and arches his back as Baby's fingers dance around his waistband. "I'm _very_ hungry."

"I bet," Baby says, nuzzling the trail of hair below his navel. "Yer so skinny."

"Fuck you."

"Ya want that too? 'Cause I'll be more'n happy."

"I—I want—" Hands curled to fists in Baby's hair, Emmet writhes beneath him, every bone in his body screaming for release. "I want—"

 _To be touched. Kissed. Held. Fucked._ He wants all of it and more. He wants everything.

"You," he gasps. "Just you."

His skin prickles from the heat of Baby's laughter. "Good answer," Baby says, and then mercifully begins to peel off his briefs.

 

For the first time since puberty had hit him, and Leo DiCaprio had started to look more and more like his Romeo, Emmet rouses to a sticky mess in his shorts and a shame so unbearable that even a hot shower and a fresh pair of underwear isn't enough to clean his conscience. As he stands before the bathroom mirror, craning his neck to search for marks he knows can't possibly exist, his mind replays the dream again, fast-forwarding, rewinding, ensuring that nothing is missed, nothing forgotten. A film reel labeled with one burning question:

_Why him?_

It's not something Emmet has the mental capacity to answer at five in the morning. Or eight, or noon, or any hour for that matter. _Close your eyes, go back to sleep, pretend it never happened._ Except when he returns to the bedroom, his phone is lit up like a torch, and no amount of soothing denial can convince him that it's anything but a bad omen.

 _"Hey it's Baby,"_ the first message reads, followed by _"from the bar last night"_ as if Emmet kept a directory of "Baby"s in his contact list. The three dots pop across the screen, and he holds his breath.

 **B:** _I forgot I'm going out of town a few days  
_ **B:** _I'll text you when I get back and we can meet then_

There comes a long pause in which Baby seems to be writing something—a paragraph, a manifesto, a threat. A lump caught in Emmet's throat. Then:

 **B:** _please take care of my jacket for me_

Emmet waits a good ten minutes or so, watches the screen go black, lights it up again, but nothing more comes through. Baby has apparently said everything he's needed to.

 _What now?_ Should he reply back? Is Baby expecting it? What would he say? _"Sorry I took so long to answer. I was busy trying to wipe the thought of your lips from my memory"?_

After another ten minutes of deliberation, he sets the phone on the table beside his glasses and shuts off the lamp. Shivering beneath the covers, he closes his eyes and tries once more to calm himself.

_It never happened. It was only a dream._

If he stops to consider it, at least one of those statements feels accurate.

 

 

 _Tick. Tick. Tick-taptaptaptaptap._ Emmet had heard of people using white noise machines for relaxation, but between the ticking of the clock and the incessant tap of the pen against her notebook, he figures no one has ever told Meagan that she's going about it wrong. "Those feelings I've been having," he starts. "They've gotten worse."

Her hand slows to a stop. "How so?"

The leather cushions under his palms are slippery with sweat and shame, anxiety compounded by the way Meagan is now holding her pen above the page, as though eager to immortalize the loss of his dignity. "I...I met this man at a bar last week. We—talked for a bit, not more than maybe fifteen, twenty minutes. But..."

"But?" She echoes as Emmet continues to stumble over his words.

"When I went home that night, I dreamed about him. In my dream we were—" _Fucking? Using breakfast as foreplay?_ "—having relations." Emmet isn't sure which embarrasses him more: confessing his sex dream to his therapist or the fact that no one under retirement age uses the word "relations" these days.

"Oh." Meagan's interest drains faster than a bucket full of holes. "So you met an attractive man at a bar and dreamed of sleeping with him."

"No, I'm not—I wasn't attracted to him." It's true in a sense; he hadn't even noticed some of Baby's more striking features until he'd stood there half-naked in front of him. And he isn't counting the ones his imagination saw fit to sprinkle here and there, like intricate embellishments or golden threads of pubic hair. He shakes his head, mostly at himself. "He wasn't exactly my type."

"And what _is_ your type?"

If Emmet wanted to sit on a fancy couch and have stupid questions thrown at him, he could have taken Deedee to a gastropub and bought her every cocktail with a cringeworthy pun in its name. "Why does it matter?"

"I'll be frank with you, Mr. Ellis, these types of dreams are hardly uncommon. People have them, they feel shame, they get over it. What I'm trying to determine is why yours has you so distraught you feel comfortable enough sharing it with me."

 _Shit, she's good._ Though Emmet's sudden receptiveness to conversation is irrelevant to the situation; after so many grueling sessions, he simply has to open his mouth and part of his brain involuntarily trickles out.

"So, then…" Meagan muses, "You said you'd only met him that night, so it's not as if he were a friend or coworker. And since you seem open in regards to your sexuality, the fact that you dreamed about another man shouldn't be the issue here…" The pen migrates to her bottom lip, gives a quiet tap. "Which brings me back to the question of your preference."

"It's not him," Emmet stresses.

"Why? Was he too thin? Too fat? Did he make inappropriate jokes? Chew with his mouth open?"

"No, he was just—" _Intimidating. Scary. Thoughtful. Gentle._ Reality blends with the world from his dreams, leaving Emmet to berate himself for not being able to tell which version of Baby he'd met that night. "Can we not talk about this anymore?"

"Well, you obviously wanted to talk about it at some point."

"Well I'm _obviously_ a masochist," he sneers.

"Or have you just accepted it for what it is?"

"Accepted what?"

"That you were lonely. That you dreamed of sleeping with a man for whom you harbored some latent yet unwanted attraction. It's not that complicated."

Emmet glares at her. "Do you know how we ran into each other? This—" He grabs the jacket beside him and yanks it up by its sleeve. "He basically accused me of stealing it from him—all but threatened me over it. I should be having nightmares about him breaking my nose, not fucking me."

Meagan cocks an eyebrow. "So you would say he came off as a bully?"

"Oh, no. Absolutely not. I know where you're going with this Meagan, and I am not in the mood."

"Seems you're never in the mood, Mr. Ellis," she counters, jotting down the obligatory note in what Emmet has come to view as his permanent record. "What will it take to convince you that your past is not something you should just ignore."

Furious, he shoves the jacket aside. "So this is your brilliant psychoanalysis? You think I've got some sort of fetish where I want to fuck every jock who ever tried to cram me into a locker back in high school? Because I hate myself? Or because they told me they felt sorry for it?"

"The man at the bar, did he tell you he felt sorry?"

Emmet snaps, "That's not the point."

"It is," Meagan tells him. "He hurt you in some way, you dreamed of being intimate with him, and now you can't stop beating yourself up over it. Regardless of what occurred, or how it felt at the time, you need to understand that dreams are dreams. Though they _can,_ they don't necessarily _have_ to reflect our inner desires. Sometimes they just happen."

"How can you just write it off like that? It wasn't some random thing that happened to me. It felt _real_. I had to check myself for hickeys afterwards."

He watches her suppress a chuckle. "Yes, they can seem that way on occasion."

"Then wouldn't you be upset if you woke up and still felt him on your skin? His sweat, his lips, how he smelled, how he throbbed when you cupped him in your hand? How you couldn't stop yourself from wanting to taste him all over?" He's gasping by the time he finishes, face burning, unable to believe he'd said all of it aloud. Fortunately, Meagan doesn't offer much more than a tilt of her head and a brief hum. Maybe she's saving her shock for later. Maybe she's heard worse.

"Obviously I'd have been put off by it," she says. "But I would have told myself what I told you. Dreams can be significant. They can be pointless as well. The meaning comes from our reaction to them."

"That's easy to say when it didn't happen to you."

"Are you afraid you'll have more dreams about this man?"

Afraid he'll see him in his bedroom every night? Afraid his brain will betray him further by telling Baby all the other places he should kiss him, touch him, tease him in order to drive him wild. Afraid he won't be able to give Deedee a believable answer as to why he can never order eggs at the diner again. "I'm...concerned."

"Because he's not your type?"

Emmet lowers his head in defeat and covers his face with his hands. "Fuck me. Just fuck my life." If only his groan were loud enough to drown out the sound of Meagan's judgment.

"You know, I've seen this before, Mr. Ellis."

"What?" He mumbles against his palms. _Utter hopelessness?_

"You have this very narrow view of what classifications others should fall into, so you preemptively construct walls around yourself to keep certain types of people out."

"So?" He says. "Can't let everyone in."

"Then you have no cause to get angry when some of them come up and simply run their hands along the perimeter."

He lifts his head and scowls. "I'm going back to work now."

The look he receives from Meagan tells him she'd been expecting something like this. "That's your choice, Mr. Ellis, but we still have plenty of time left if you'd like to talk about something else."

"No. I'm done talking today," Emmet says, throwing on his jacket. "In fact, cancel my appointment for next week. I think I deserve a break."

"Very well then. Please take care of yourself, Mr. Ellis."

But Emmet is too worn out to take care of anything except the jacket—a promise he'd never agreed to, one he feels compelled to keep. At least until he sees Baby again, whenever and wherever that might be.

 

Like most of his grand ideas—obtaining tenure at university, starting an indoor herb garden, wearing a stranger's jacket in public—Emmet's plan to sneak back into the office via the rear stairwell falls flat the minute he opens the break room door and sees Tom sitting at one of the tables, attempting to shake the crumbs from a bag of corn chips into his mouth. "Oh, hey! Emmet!"

It figures Tom couldn't have been facing left a little more; Emmet has no qualms about exploiting someone's blind spot. "Hey, Tom. How's...lunch?"

"Pretty good, pal." He lifts his mug, the inside stained with a crusty red ring. "I'm on the tomato soup diet. Gotta shed some pounds before speedo season."

OK...Emmet definitely hadn't wanted to picture that. "Well, I just came to grab my sandwich," he says, edging towards the fridge. "So I guess I'll see you later..." Should he finger-gun him? Would he find that offensive? "...pal?" _Perfect. Nailed it, Emmet._

"Hey, whatcha think of that Happy Hour? Crazy, huh?"

 _Crazy?_ Yeah, Emmet could get behind that. "I guess so."

"Hell, I didn't even make it into work Friday." Tom stops to take a sip of his mug-soup, licking the tomato mustache from his upper lip with such disgusting thoroughness, Emmet want to vomit up his lunch before he’s consumed it. "Hey," he says once he's cleaned himself off to his tongue's extent, "what happened with that guy at the bar?"

"What guy?" Emmet asks, because playing dumb always works.

"You know, big, burly fellow. Looked like a linebacker."

Emmet doesn't know what that is, but there's no mistaking who Tom is referring to. "Oh. He was...one of my exes." It's a lot simpler than describing him as _This random guy who gave me a wet dream after almost kicking my ass,_ if Emmet can get past the sour taste it leaves in his mouth. "He just wanted to talk about things."

"Trust me, pal, I know how that is," Tom says. "But you can't fall for his tricks. You gotta stay strong. You gotta respect yourself."

"Oh-kay…" Perhaps this had been an even worse idea than he'd thought. "I'm just gonna—"

"You know why I stopped answering calls from my ex-wife?"

"Umm...because of a restraining order?"

"No, because I respect myself too much." Invigorated, he snatches up his mug, takes a hearty swig before grumbling down at what's left of its contents. "It was always alimony-this and lawyer-that. Never 'How have you been, Tom?' Well I'm just fine, Brenda. Thanks for asking."

Emmet finds it helps ease his bewilderment if he imagines some of the shrapnel made its way into Tom's brain. "You...uh...got a little soup on your…"

Tom watches him scratch his lip for a moment before he eventually gets the picture and wipes the soup off with the back of his hand—still gross, but Emmet knows when to pick his battles. "Thanks, bud. I owe ya one."

"No problem, Tom." _If I ever have a soup emergency, I'll know who to turn to._

"And don't forget what I said. You deserve better."

"You're probably right," Emmet sighs as he grabs his lunch from the fridge and makes a beeline for the door. Good or bad, he certainly deserves something from all this.

 

Before he goes to bed that night, he rifles through his medicine cabinet for the bottle of sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him months ago, in the days when the incident (as they'd come to call it) was fresh in his mind, and relaxation all but impossible. He's never been much of a fan—they always made him too groggy in the morning, too reluctant to start his day—so they'd sat there untouched, an idea to keep around "just in case."

A good idea, for once. Fingers crossed.

He swallows one and then curls up under the covers, watches the minutes pass on the clock as he waits for it to kick in.

_Five. Six._

_"I'm sorry."_

_Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen._

_"Did I hurt ya?"_

_Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty._

_"Tell me what ya want."_

_Twenty-four. Twenty-five._

_"Are you afraid you'll have more dreams about this man?"_

_No. Not anymore._

He won't be dreaming about Baby again. He's not going to let the same mistake happen twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all are liking it so far. As always, comments and feedback are much appreciated.
> 
> Come chat with me on [tumblr.](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com)


	4. Cold Feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading thus far. This is where things start to take a turn for Emmet. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> And I just had to add a M*A*S*H reference for my good friend [ithinkwehitametaphor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ithinkwehitametaphor/pseuds/ithinkwehitametaphor).

They've been sitting at the diner for close to twenty minutes now, having chit-chatted their way through a lonely Sunday bus ride, a chilly six-block walk, and the two cups of coffee that it took for Emmet's legs to finally defrost, yet for reasons unbeknownst to the rational mind, Deedee waits until just after their food has arrived to drop a casual bomb of, "So, you're gonna call him, right?"

Emmet looks up from his turkey club, more wary of her intentions than he is the piece of lettuce that dangles from the corner of his mouth as he attempts to speak. _"Whuh?_ "

"You know..." she drawls as she begins to slice into her syrup-soaked waffle. "That guy you met at the bar. The one you slept with."

Emmet has his pride to thank for forcing him to swallow. That and visions of Deedee at his funeral, kicking off his eulogy with _"He died as he lived, choking on meat."_ "I already told you, I didn't sleep with him. We sat on a park bench two feet apart—fully clothed—and had a brief conversation."

"Yeah, but you _wanted_ to," Deedee chuckles under her breath. "Why else would you have dreamed about it?"

 _"I don't know,"_ he moans, slumping back in the booth and tossing his crumpled napkin to the table. "Because he was the last person I talked to that night?"

"Nope. Not buying it."

"Because...my sleep-deprived brain got him mixed up with Ewan McGregor?"

"Nice try, Obi-Wan."

"Well, maybe I just ate something funny."

"You? Eat?" Her eyes all but salivate over the mound of fries piled next to his scarcely-touched sandwich. "I'll believe it when I see it."

"Then I guess we'll never know," he says mockingly. "Call it one of the great mysteries of the universe, on par with Stonehenge and why Apple Jacks don't taste like apples."

"Because they taste like pie. Next."

"That's not what—" Emmet cedes his pointless argument with a sigh. "Just give it up, Dee."

"Nuh," mumbles Deedee, fully engrossed in trying to corkscrew an entire quarter of Belgian waffle into her mouth. "I'mma solve dis mys'try…"

"No, I meant the waffles. You're getting syrup all over your face. Plus, my arms aren't exactly built for performing the Heimlich."

Grumbling, she sets down her fork and wipes the mess from her cheeks with her napkin. "Yeah, I guess you do make a good point. You are kind of a weak hugger. But don't try to change the subject. You're gonna call this guy."

Emmet huffs. "No I'm not."

"Oh, c'mon, Em. I clearly remember you saying he was buff _and_ a redhead. That's like killing two sexy birds with one stone."

"Says who?"

"Only the majority of the population? Especially if the carpet matches the drapes."

Of all the things Emmet wants to think of while staring down a plate of diner food, ginger pubes have to be the lowest on his list. "Please, Dee, not now. I don't want to get banned from eating here because you can't sit through one meal without bringing up genitalia."

But Deedee doesn't seem to follow, mug in one hand and cell phone in the other, tapping at the screen so fast it's a wonder she doesn't dislocate her thumb. "So I'll pencil you in for a genital briefing tomorrow then? Oh wait, I've got gymnastics practice on Mondays and Thursdays now. Are Tuesdays good for you?"

 _Sorry, but I meet with my LARPing group on Tuesdays_ is what Emmet had been planning to say until a sharp buzz in his pocket sends the snark skittering right out of his head.

_No. Not now. He can't. I can't._

His thoughts unspool like threads, twisting into little knots around his fingers, a gentle tug in the right direction. Surely he can't ignore it, not with Deedee there watching, listening, waiting to sink her claws into his misery. Swallowing his fears, he reaches into his back pocket and braces himself for the worst.

If his heart had fists, it would punch him in the face.

"Deedee, did you just text me a peach emoji next to an eggplant emoji?"

"That's a meeting invite," she says, like a businesswoman trying not to laugh at a dick joke. "Feel free to add it to your calendar."

With a roll of his eyes, Emmet sets the phone on the table. "Sure. I'll get right on that." Right after he gets over the urge to lobotomize himself with his butter knife.

"What I hear, you've been gettin' on a lot of things lately," Deedee quips, chasing it with a (much smaller) bite of waffle.

_Well, at least she's being subtle this time._

"Big, hard, ginger things."

_Or not._

"You're really determined to make me regret telling you this, aren't you?" He says.

She takes a short sip from her mug. "Hey, if I had a dream about boning a hot dude, I'd tell you."

The butter knife is starting to look more enticing by the minute. "He wasn't—Look, just because you and I are friends doesn't mean we need to know everything about each other's sex lives."

"I know about the weird sock thing."

Emmet can't be certain if the burn he feels in his chest is indigestion or his body trying to spontaneously combust, but a small part of him hopes that if he glares at Deedee hard enough the latter might become more than junk science. "I'm beginning to think I shouldn't talk to you when I'm drunk. Or sober. Or even remotely conscious."

"Well, if you don't want to talk to me…" Her voice sings above the scrape of the spoon inside her mug, an obvious if not futile attempt to distract Emmet from the fingers currently inching towards his fries. He plays along until she's almost reached the plate, then quickly springs forward and thwarts her attack with a sharp slap to the back of her hand

 _"Ow!_ What the hell?"

"You're not slick, Dee. I can see you coming from a mile away."

Scowling, Deedee rubs her knuckles. "Fuck's sake, Em, they're just fries. Who died and made you the king of Idaho?"

"This isn't about the fries," Emmet growls, "it's about you trying to hook me up with random strangers."

"Well, maybe it can be about both," she replies, nose turned upwards.

"Look, I don't even know if he's into men. We met at an Irish pub, not Emily's Friendly Gayborhood Bar." Even if Emmet were to factor in the timid eye contact, the offer to lend him his gloves, and the odd enthusiasm he'd shown at the idea of meeting again, he still has no way of confirming Baby's sexuality short of asking him personally. And he's not about to risk having his teeth knocked out over that. "And even if I _did_ want to call him, he told me he was going out of town and that he would get in touch when he comes back."

"But that was over a week ago," Deedee whines. "What if he's just too shy to call you first?"

"What if he's just on a business trip and doesn't want to be disturbed?"

"Yeah?" Folding her arms atop the table, Deedee leans forward and narrows her eyes. "What kind of work does he do?"

"Umm…" Fuck, what _would_ Baby do? In retrospect, Emmet thinks Professional Arm Wrestler might be a suitable career choice. Or maybe Boxer, or Bouncer, anything that requires a strict diet of weight gain powder and bicep curls. Contractor? Auto Mechanic? "I think...something with...tools?"

"You had a sensual park bench conversation with the guy and didn't even bother to ask what his job is? Or his favorite food? Or favorite color? Or what he thinks about when he stands by the ocean and watches the sunset?"

"Sorry, Dee," Emmet says sarcastically. "Guess I had other things on my mind."

She twirls a lock of hair between her fingers. "Then I guess you're just gonna have to ask him when you see him. Take him out for burgers, or invite him over to your place for a couple drinks. Get to know him better."

"What? I don't want this guy in my apartment."

"Come on, Em. People make mistakes. Why don't you give the guy a chance?"

Emmet seethes, "The only thing I have to give him is his jacket back."

"Why bother then?" She asks. "If you hate him so much, why are you even returning it?"

 _Because he might kill me if I don't?_ "Because it's his."

Deedee huffs, stabbing at her waffle again. "But _you_ found it. Or bought it. Or whatever. It's probably dripping with your smell by now."

"I'm not a cat, Dee. Possession doesn't work that way."

"Well you obviously like the thing. You've been wearing it all over the place."

The moment the accusation leaves her mouth, Emmet becomes acutely aware of the jacket lying beside him, its sleeve grazing the outside of his thigh. He nudges it farther into the corner, as though to prove some point. "I'm only wearing it because I haven't had the chance to go shopping for a replacement yet."

"Or—" she waves her fork around "—maybe you're just hanging onto it because you secretly want to see Bobby again."

"It's _Baby."_

"See? You're already on a first name basis with him. So what's the issue?"

"But—" is all the argument Emmet has left inside him. There are no words, no diagrams, no pie charts or coloring books that can fully convey the nuances of self-preservation to a thirty-two-year-old teenager who once shotgunned six cans of cold brew coffee minutes before a school assembly. And because he's too tired to stay angry, he simply drops his elbows to the table and rests his head in his hands, an occurrence that has become so common by now he's surprised he hasn't ended up with permanent palm-prints on his skin.

"Listen, Em," Deedee's voice wafts in softly, "you know I only push you to make friends because I care about you right?"

 _Friends?_ He _hmph_ s through his nose.

"Like it or not, I can't always be here," she continues. "And I hate to think of you sitting around your apartment alone all the time."

"I don't 'sit around my apartment alone all the time'," Emmet mocks, raising his head to flash her an irritated look. "I do other things."

"Like what? Watching _Voyager_ marathons?"

 _"No_. I go places."

"Other than work and the supermarket? I can barely get you out of the house on a good day. And don't even try to tell me you'd come here on your own just because you were drawn in by the smell of hashbrowns and burnt coffee."

Unable and unmoved to answer, Emmet idly plucks at the sleeve of his sweater, watching his fingertips twist and turn in a sea of dark orange. A streak of movement opposite him catches his eye and, fully expecting Deedee to go for his fries again, he shivers in surprise when he feels the warm press of her hand against his.

"I can tell you've been down since the incident, Emmet," she says, giving a gentle squeeze. "I just want you to be back to feeling like yourself again. I worry about you a lot, you know."

"I know," Emmet replies quietly. "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologize. Just let me help you, OK?"

"Yeah. OK."

"Good." Cheerful smile returning, she withdraws her hand. "So that means I can help you finish your fries too, right?"

"But…" Emmet stares down at them in pity. "They're cold by now."

"Hey, potatoes are good no matter what. Didn't science teach you that?"

She winks at him, and despite his worries, Emmet finds his lips surrendering to a smile. "Well, I guess we're just going to have to test that hypothesis," he says, and slides the plate to the middle of the table for the two of them to share.

 

The unctuous taste of cold fries and uncomfortable conversation sticks to Emmet's tongue as he steps through his apartment door, promptly stumbles out of his shoes and strips off his jacket. The former stay where they are; the latter ends up being tossed to the couch as usual, hurled with just the right amount of caution to avoid breaking the planetarium lamp on the table beside it. Wearing it to stave off the cold is one thing, but Emmet doesn't want it anywhere near his coat hook, doesn't want to think of the jacket as a permanent installation in his home, although the sight of it balled up on the sofa each morning is no better, its slumbering form bearing all the charm of a guest who had long overstayed their welcome.

He rubs his eyes beneath his glasses.

 _Is Deedee right? Is she wrong?_ Should he shove his apprehension aside and just call him already? Sure, it might get the jacket off his back—literally, figuratively—but he doubts Baby would just want to take it and go. What kind of questions would he ask this time? What sort of things would they talk about? Could Emmet bring himself to ask for a photo? Would it make him feel better? Would it make any difference at all?

What if their fingers touch when Emmet hands him his jacket, and he suddenly recalls the dream? What if he looks into Baby's eyes and pictures the soft bedroom light dancing across them, rosy cheeks glowing as he leans in for a kiss?

It's all too much to think about at the moment, with his head swimming and his heart trying to claw its way out of his chest. So instead he drags himself over to the couch and flops down, eyeing the jacket cautiously as he picks up the television remote and idly begins to flip through the channels.

 

If the days were a burden, then the evenings are a test of will, though Emmet has grown much better at curbing his thoughts while he lies in bed and waits for the pills to summon him to sleep. But tonight, with Deedee's words shards of glass in his brain, he stumbles down the path of consciousness from one image to another, one echo melting into the next: a flash of blue eyes, a smile, a whisper of his name. Everything that had happened, and everything that hadn't.

Deedee, Meagan, Tom—they could sit there and say whatever they wanted, judge him under the guise of helpfulness, and still go home to the luxury of trivial worries: what to make for dinner, which book to read next, which scarf to wear tomorrow. When they walk, their feet trample ground rather than eggshells; when they sleep at night, it's atop a mattress instead of a bed of nails. They can't possibly know what his life is like, no matter how eloquently Emmet can convey it.

Even now, his skin feels hot where the Baby from his dream had touched him, tingling when he runs his fingers down his neck, his chest, over the smooth expanse of his belly. He does it without consideration, like it's almost expected of him: another question along the lines of _Why don't you give the guy a chance?_ that Emmet can only answer by reaching down and digging out the truth with his bare hands. And maybe he wants to know, and maybe he doesn't, but he can't stop asking himself what might have happened had he not awoken when he did. What could Baby have done to him?

Sucking him off would be the obvious presumption; his lips were practically on Emmet's cock when the dream ended. But what if things hadn't been so cut-and-dry? What if Baby had decided to keep teasing him instead, kissing everywhere except the places he ached the most? Making Emmet beg for his mouth despite knowing how badly it would bruise his ego?

He's already half-hard by the time he slips his hand into his briefs and starts to stroke himself, head throbbing with infinite, unwelcome possibilities.

How might it feel then if, rather than suck his cock, Baby pushed his legs apart and stuck his tongue inside him? Hot and hungry, sliding in as deep as he could go and then some, fucking him until he was loose and sopping wet. Maybe he'd even kiss him afterwards, so Emmet could taste how much he'd craved him. And then, only after Baby's lips and tongue have had their fill, he'd slick up those big, wide fingers and work Emmet open as slowly and gently as when he'd shook his hand that night.

His wrist flicks faster, soft gasps grazing his parched lips.

No, Baby wouldn't need to go easy on him; he'd already know where to rub, where to push, all the best spots to hit, as though Emmet's rim were a landmark, and he'd made the trip more often than either of them could count. And why shouldn't he? It had been _Emmet's_ dream after all. He could hate it but still gain pleasure, want it to stop yet linger behind, watching from the fringes as Baby takes him in his embrace and drives his cock home, two masses coiling around each other in the dusky light.

When he comes in his fantasy, it roars throughout his body like waves crashing into the shore; in reality, it's more of a whimper in the pit of his stomach, a guilt that seeps into his bones, pulses through his fingers, clings to his muscles as he slinks to the bathroom to wash himself off in the sink.

Lying in bed again, in that stretch of time between when he downs his pills and sleep comes to claim him, Emmet closes his eyes and tries not to imagine any more. He can't think of his pillow as Baby's arm beneath his head, can't snuggle under the blanket and pretend there's another body at his back, keeping him safe and warm—not if he has any chance of waking with a clean conscience.

Not if he hopes to forgive himself the sin of wanting him.

 

 

"For your information, Dee, I wasn't Einstein, I was George Washington Carver," Emmet says, caught in a balancing act between holding the phone in one hand and attempting to remove his shoes with the other. "And before you ask, no, he wasn't just the peanut butter guy. In fact, he didn't even invent it. It was really—"

"Peanut butter, jelly, jam, whatever," interrupts Deedee. "All that matters is you won the contest, right?"

He gives up after the first shoe and feebly toes at the other's heel. "No. I lost to a fifth-grader dressed as Optimus Prime. He was literally wearing a refrigerator box with paint slapped on it."

"Well, fortunately for you there are no winners or losers in the Deedee Dawkins Annual Costume Contest," she announces happily. "So throw on your best lab coat, grab your nuts and get over here, Georgie."

Emmet yawns deliberately. "Sorry, but as much as I appreciate the invite, I think I'll sit this one out."

"But Emmmm…It's Halloween. Don't you wanna hand out candy to cute kids in costumes and boxes of raisins to lazy teens who couldn't be bothered to even put on a mask?"

"It's also a weeknight. I just walked in the door not five minutes ago and, to be honest, I'm so tired I'm thinking of heading straight to bed."

"Well you're no fun."

"No, I guess I'm not," he says, taking off his messenger bag and hanging it on one of the hooks by the door. "But I think I can live with that."

Deedee groans so loudly the phone seems to vibrate. "Fine, enjoy your nap, old man. I'll be out here making sure kids are so sugared-up they'll never sleep again."

"'Night, Dee. Don't eat too many Reese's," he replies and ends the call. From there, the evening follows its usual course: phone tucked away, jacket thrown to the couch, TV tuned to any given channel until his eyelids sag like weighted curtains. Brain set and locked to autopilot. At least, that's how it should go. But tonight is different.

Tonight, he'd caught himself thinking about Baby again.

It's not his fault, Emmet reasons—how could it be if whenever he touches or holds or looks at his phone he's reminded of how he's living on borrowed time? Two weeks of silence have passed, two weeks of debating whether Baby had simply forgotten about the jacket, and yet Emmet can't accept that somehow he might have managed to get off scot-free. And since he doesn't have the nerve to call and ask, he's left sitting on his couch, staring into the distance as he wonders when and where Baby will make his next appearance.

Sometimes he'll be listening to music during his morning commute, and suddenly look up expecting to see Baby in the seat opposite him. Whenever his doorbell rings with another takeout order, he'll picture Baby on the other side, holding a box of pizza or container of Pad Thai. And when his radiator clangs and hisses throughout the night, he imagines maintenance sending Baby up to take a look, making him put those callused hands of his to good use.

Baby was nowhere and everywhere: a body of atoms, an illusion of thought, the air that fills the space beside him, lounging on the couch with a soft smile on his face.

Emmet pulls his legs up onto the adjacent cushion and tugs the jacket over them so there are no gaps left, nothing for his mind to latch onto and twist into an unrecognizable nightmare. Then, cozying up to the armrest, he rests his head on his arm and half-heartedly watches whatever is on TV, trying to ease his mind with the promise that, soon, this will all sort itself out.

He's almost got himself convinced by the time his eyes start to flutter shut.

 

"Can I _please_ look now?" Baby giggles, perched on the edge of the sofa with his hands over his eyes like a kid itching to charge headlong into a game of hide-and-seek. "It's already been more'n an hour."

"It's been five minutes," Emmet chides him. "Those microwave burritos you like so much take longer to cook." Suppressing a giggle of his own, he smooths his hands down the front of the jacket, tugs on the cuff of each sleeve, calculates some last minute adjustments. The collar is drooping on one side but it's a quick fix, and even without the help of a mirror, and with Baby's impatient groans a constant distraction, Emmet is confident he looks as put-together as he can possibly get. Though it doesn't hurt to keep teasing him a bit. "You know, the longer you wait the better the surprise will be."

"C'mon, Emmet. If I keep this up I'm gonna turn into a statue."

"Good," he shoots back. "I can drop your lifeless body off at the thrift shop. I'm sure someone's grandma would love to have you in her china cabinet."

"You really want my ghost hauntin' yer place?" Baby says. "Drinkin' all your OJ and turnin' the lights off when you're on the can?"

 _Now_ Emmet laughs. "OK, OK, you win. Go ahead and open them." He's barely finished his sentence when Baby rips his hands away, his face plastered with an ear-to-ear grin. _Good._ It makes it all the more enjoyable when his eyes widen and his jaw falls slack at the sight of what's before him.

_"Wow."_

"Ta-daaa!" Emmet sweeps his arms outward in a grand flourish, the jacket opening wider, so Baby doesn't need to use his imagination to see that he's wearing nothing underneath. Socks notwithstanding. "So...what do you think?"

The longer Baby stares, the more it seems his lips have lost the ability to pull themselves shut. "I think I never wanna look at anythin' else ever again."

Careful not to catch his shins on the coffee table, Emmet saunters over to the couch. "Y'know, when I first thought of this, I figured you'd get a kick out of it. But now I'm just glad I didn't end up giving you a heart attack."

Baby laughs, "I woulda died happy then."

Emmet's knees press into the cushions on either side of Baby's thighs, palms settling on his broad shoulders. "You like it that much, huh?" he asks, canting his hips in a provocative show.

"Are you kiddin'? I never seen this old thing look so good." Grasping a small section of the jacket, Baby flicks his thumb over the edge before slipping both hands inside to caress Emmet's stomach. "Guess your gorgeous musta rubbed off on it."

"Funny," Emmet says, "but we both know I'm nothing more than a nerdy-looking black guy—in an oversized coat," he adds with a chuckle.

Baby looks up at him longingly, one finger tracing a delicate arc along his hipbone. "It's not a joke. I really meant it. Whenever I see ya, I get this crazy warm feelin' in my guts."

"I think that's called an erection, Baby."

"No," he shakes his head, laughs softly. "It's not just that, it's...somethin' else." His eyes twinkle with a brilliance that rivals the stars in the sky. "So, yeah, what I mean is you really are gorgeous."

Maybe it's his touch that does it, or the warm whisper of his voice, but Emmet suddenly feels hot all over, more so than when he'd first donned the jacket or adjusted the thermostat to compensate for his little stunt. Flustered, he looks to Baby for an answer, but Baby merely smiles.

"Dr. Ellis, I think yer blushin'. Was it somethin' I said?"

"I'm not blushing," Emmet scoffs. "How would _you_ know anyway?"

"The tips of your ears are all red. Nose, too. It's cute."

"Well, _your_ face is so red I could spread it on some buns and use it as ketchup."

 _"Mmm…"_ Purring happily, Baby nudges Emmet's stiff cock aside and presses a kiss to his navel. "Promise?"

"Christ." Emmet can't help but snort a laugh. "You're terrible."

"No worse than you, Dr. Jacket Striptease."

Funneling every last bit of strength into his noodly arms, Emmet shoves Baby against the back of the sofa and straddles him, ignoring the creaking of the couch legs, the rattle of the frames on the wall, anything that might deter him from his goal.

"I'm glad you like your surprise," he says, leaning in so their lips barely brush. "Maybe I'll let you take it off me later."

"Maybe—" Baby catches the bottom one between his teeth and gives it a tug. "—we could leave it on instead."

Emmet is done negotiating.

He pulls Baby in by the shirt collar and kisses him hard, everything they need to say to each other written on their tongues, their skin, the slide of Baby's hands on his back and the grind of Emmet's cock against his belly. It's delicious, delirious, and Emmet feels he could fuck him right then and there, bounce atop Baby's lap with the jacket pooled around his shoulders, Baby murmuring on about how gorgeous he is, how he's never seen anything more beautiful. To hell with the mess. To hell with the couch. There would be plenty of time to figure it out later.

Shifting back a little, he wedges his hands between the two of them and begins to loosen Baby's belt.

"Emmet—" Baby mumbles against his lips. "Emmet, wait—"

"What?" He mumbles back, defiant fingers still working the buckle.

It takes Baby forcibly prying their bodies apart to garner his full attention. "Just—" He gasps, the blush on his cheeks redder than Emmet's previous exaggeration. "Wait—wait here a sec."

"What—why—" Are the only words Emmet is allowed to speak before it happens again— _it_ being Baby's habit of picking him up and tossing him around like he were attempting to launch a sack of potatoes into orbit. If it's any consolation, he tells himself, at least Baby is careful enough to flip him onto one of the large, plush throw pillows that Emmet had gratefully splurged on.

Gigantic arms boxing him in, Baby leans down and pecks the tip of his nose. "Sit tight. I'll be right back."

"Hey!" Emmet starts to shout, but all he can do is watch through fogged and smudged lenses as Baby shoots around the corner and into the hall. "I swear if you don't come back with condoms—"

"Don't guess, jus' close your eyes," Baby hollers. "I got a surprise for you."

A surprise? Oh, Emmet likes where this is going.

Following Baby's orders, he shuts his eyes and stretches out on the sofa with a satisfied smirk—legs splayed wide, one foot propped up on the cushion—smugly stroking his cock as if his PhD had been in pornography, thesis titled _How to Show off the Goods._ The skin on his hip itches where the jacket scrapes against it, but before it has the chance to rub him raw, he hears the comforting thud of Baby's footsteps entering the room.

"Back with my surprise already, mmh?" He purrs, slowly blinking his lids open. "I hope it's—"

He sits bolt upright.

 _"No_ —no way. Baby, put it back."

"What?" Smiling innocently, Baby holds the camera up to his chest, its cover open, flash wailing out a warning cry. "It's just a picture. It'll be fun."

"Maybe for _you_. You're not the one sitting on the couch with his dick hanging out."

"But you look so good, I just wanna remember this forever."

"Then why don't you get it tattooed on the backs of your eyelids?" Emmet sneers.

"This'll be faster," jokes Baby. "Plus you know I'm scared'a needles."

"And I'm scared of having my genitals floating out there in the world for all of Ray Harbison High School to find."

Baby seems a touch surprised at the comment, or offended, or whatever emotion it is that has his unibrow bunched into a tiny orange knot. "C'mon, Emmet, you know I'd never show it to anyone. It'll just be for us. Like our little secret."

"Baby…"

 _"Please._ I'll do anythin'."

"Are you serious?" Emmet's voice bristles with contempt. "Do you realize how dangerous that statement can be? What if I asked you to clean my apartment or do my laundry for a month?"

"Done," replies Baby, hesitation nonexistent. "So can I take your picture now?"

But Emmet is far too proud to let him call his bluff. "Well, maybe I changed my mind. Maybe I want you to pay my rent instead."

"Sure, I'll do that."

"Fix my transmission?"

"Buy a car an' I'm on it."

"Build a monument in my likeness?"

"How big ya want it?"

"What if—" He stops, thinks, and very slowly the corner of his mouth crooks into a smirk. "What if I wanted your jacket?"

"Then it's yours."

"Really?" Emmet is certain he must have heard wrong. "You'd give me your jacket? You're not just yanking my chain?"

"I mean, I'll yank whatever ya want, if it'll make ya happy," Baby says. "And you can still have the jacket." He laughs, shy and sweet, and though he's halfway across the room, with the stuffy air and the coffee table between them, Emmet swears he can still feel its echo vibrate deep inside his chest. He smiles back.

"Alright, you got yourself a deal. But if we're doing this, it's going to be tasteful. Think _Playboy_  instead of _Hustler."_

Baby grins excitedly. "Yeah, sure! It'll be great no matter what."

"Don't go making assumptions until after it's developed," warns Emmet, pulling his legs up on the couch and folding them in front of his body like only the classiest of centerfolds. "You never know; I could ruin it by making the silliest face you've ever seen."

"But I've already seen what you look like when you come."

If Emmet's throw had been a bit harder, and the pillow not quite as soft, Baby's crotch would have been in for a shock. "Whoa, careful," Baby chuckles, nudging the fluffy projectile aside with his foot. "You could hurt someone."

"Trust me, if I wanted to hurt you, I'd shave your balls while you're asleep."

"Nah, you like my fuzz too much to do that. My sack'd just get stuck to yer face without it."

There's something in the smile they share, the laugh that tickles Emmet's throat and warms him to the tips of his toes that seems so natural, like breathing oxygen or drinking coffee or huddling under the covers on a cold morning. Only Emmet knows he isn't alone now. He knows that when he breathes, he inhales the same air as Baby. When he drinks his coffee, there are two cups on the counter instead of one. And when he wakes each morning, Baby is curled up next to him, keeping him nice and toasty. It's little more than a feeling, but he can't imagine it being any other way. He doesn't want to. "Glasses on or off?"

"On," Baby replies. "You look perfect already."

"Keep flattering me like this and I just might have to suck your dick later." He says it in hopes of receiving another silly comment, something to make him smile wider, laugh harder, to give him further excuse to throw his arms around Baby's neck and drag him back down to the couch once their photoshoot is finished. But when he looks across at him all Emmet sees is a quiet admiration, as if Baby truly had stumbled upon the most stunning treasure in the world.

Tugging a corner of the jacket over his lap to hide his growing erection, he happily declares, "All set."

Eyes lit with a turquoise shimmer, Baby crouches down and raises the camera to his face. "Alright, say ch—"

"Wait, wait—!" Emmet stops him. "I almost forgot—" Slowly, he slides his fingers beneath the material on his right shoulder and gives a tiny push. The jacket falls away beautifully, revealing a soft curve of coffee-colored skin topped with a darker constellation of freckles, imperfect little dots that Emmet had always hated, but Baby now welcomes with a low whistle. "There— _now_ I'm ready." And with the sweetest of smiles, he closes his eyes and tips his head to the side, waiting with bated breath until he hears the shutter click and sees the flash pierce the darkness behind his lids.

"Did you get a good shot?" He asks, blinking the shadows away.

"Just the best ever." Baby proclaims, standing tall and proud as he flaps the photo through the air like a bird boasting its best asset.

"No, no, don't shake it," Emmet gently scolds. "Just let it do its thing." Sliding his legs to the floor, he beckons Baby closer with a pat to the adjacent cushion. "Come here and we can watch it together."

Baby's hands, big as ships and unpredictable as the waves beneath them, glide over the Spectra's switches with a quaint familiarity, showing it the same reverence as he'd done Emmet's body. As Emmet watches him close the cover and carefully set the camera on the table, he questions whether he should feel honored or jealous. But then Baby is joining him on the couch, and all he can think of is wrapping an arm around his waist and holding him tight, chin propped on his shoulder while they watch the photo gradually begin to color. It hasn't made it halfway to the finish line before Emmet breaks into a giggle.

"Oh my god…"

"See?" Baby says. "Told ya it'd be fun."

"I look ridiculous."

"You look _incredible."_ Voice fading to a hush, Baby gazes at the image captured between his fingers, thumbs edging the corners, back and forth and back in a daze. Then, after what feels like hours, he breathes, "You should keep the jacket."

"What?" Emmet pulls back, gives a guilty laugh. "Baby, you know I was only joking earlier."

"I know. But I still want ya to have it."

"But you love this jacket."

"Yeah, but…I like you more, Emmet. And I think it'd be nice to see ya wear it when we're out together. It'd make me happy. 'Sides," he adds with a smile, "it looks better on you than me, anyway."

The topic is debatable, but with Baby's smile melting into his mind, Emmet doesn't have the strength to tell him he might be wrong. "You give your letterman jacket to a lot of cheerleaders back in the day?" He jokes, elbowing Baby in the arm.

"You're the first," Baby says.

"Guess I must be special then."

Baby reaches up and tugs the jacket back over Emmet's shoulder. "Yeah. You are."

There's a word in a dictionary on a shelf somewhere that Emmet thinks he could use to explain to Baby how he feels then, but rather than waste precious time and energy, he presses forward and kisses him, breathing the answer gently into his mouth. Because it's good, it's right, it's all he wants to do. And it gives him an excuse to creep in and pluck the photograph right out of his hand.

"I'll be keeping this, too."

"Hey!" Baby protests, moving to snatch it back. "You're not even gonna let me have it?"

Emmet playfully bats his hand away. "Why? So it can fall out of your wallet when you're at the bar with your coworkers?"

"C'mon, that was _one_ time, and it wasn't even a dirty photo."

"One time too many, you mean."

"You gotta give me another chance."

"What, another chance for you to buy a round of beers with my dick? That's not what bartenders are expecting when they ask for a tip—"

They stumble from the couch together, Emmet howling with laughter as he's chased around the room. But their _highly mature_ game of Keep-Away doesn't last long; within seconds Baby has him cornered in the kitchen, arms looped around his waist in what Emmet is certain must be the world's strongest bear-hug.

"You change yer mind yet?" Baby murmurs against his ear. "Or do I need to tickle the socks offa ya?" A threatening hand slides towards his armpit, but before it can dig in, Emmet quickly shouts:

"Wait—Listen—What if I put it in the album? Then you can look at it whenever you want. OK?"

The answer must be acceptable, because Baby suddenly stops trying to squeeze the life from him like the last few drops of juice from an orange. "Deal!" He cries out, half-giddy with excitement. "So let's hurry up an' stick it in already!"

"Wait, are you still talking about the photo or—" In the blink of an eye, Emmet finds himself being spun around and hoisted into the air, Baby's rough hands gripping the backs of his thighs.

"How 'bout a little of both?" Baby chuckles, and carries him off in the direction of the bedroom. Every step rattles Emmet's teeth, makes his glasses tremble and his eyeballs wobble in their sockets, but he knows Baby will take good care of him. Here, in his arms, he feels the safest he's ever been.

He closes his eyes contentedly, opens them and sees the photo still clutched in his hand: jacket hanging off his shoulder, legs folded in front of him, fist tangled in the canvas covering his lap. His lips smiling coyly for the camera. For Baby.

He smiles back at himself. And before he knows it, Baby is grasping his waist again, the jacket fanning out like a cape as his body hits the mattress.

 

_"I don't mind eating if it's possible to make a martini sandwich."_

A sudden burst of laughter from the television sends Emmet's eyes flying open. He jolts forward, his viselike grip on the armrest perhaps the only thing that keeps him from launching himself off the sofa and into the smug face of Alan Alda on the screen.

_How? Where?_

Thoughts come in fragments, breaths in sharp gasps, sweat plastering the clothes to his body like a second skin. When he looks around, he sees the crisp outlines and blurred shapes of his own living room, and it takes him a minute to realize that his head hasn't come loose but his glasses are merely askew, turning the world into a human-sized fishbowl. Still clutching the armrest, he readjusts them with his other hand, pinches his cheek on the way down to prove to himself that he really is awake. It's hard to tell when everything hurts so badly, from the ache in his temples to the one between his legs, his throat burning like he'd inhaled gravel, heart pulsing the same word through his veins until it consumes every cell in his bloodstream:

_Gorgeous._

Over the years, Emmet had been described as many things: _skinny, wimpy, smart, weak,_ multiple variations of the term _nerd,_ the occasional _so (fucking) good,_ mostly when used in reference to balancing equations or giving head. But no one had ever told him he was _gorgeous._ He swallows hard, rubs his forehead.

 _Why?_ Why did Baby have to call him that? What had made his brain even think of it? Had he been that starved for affection?

It doesn't matter. Whatever the answers may be, the best he can do now is try to scrub the shame from his memory—for the second time—and hope that it never happens again.

 _But it will,_ a small voice inside him echoes. The choice isn't his to make. Just like he wasn't able to choose how good it had felt whenever they'd kissed or touched one another. Or how he'd smiled and laughed along with Baby like he was happy just being in his company. Like he were meant to be there.

No. Emmet refuses to accept it. His cock turning traitor is one thing—biological urges, as uncomfortable as they were sometimes, could be forgiven—but he wouldn't, he could never enjoy whatever the hell _that_ had been. _Friendship? Romance?_ There's no way—there must be a reason behind the dream, an alternative explanation—something—anything— _think, think_ —

At that very moment, when his desperation has reached its peak, his eyes alight on the jacket lying on the floor by his feet. And one by one, the pieces start to come together.

_It's a way out._

Emmet had wanted a way out. He'd been so distraught over the possibility of seeing Baby again, his brain had taken to construct a reality in which that scenario would never come to pass. What reason would he have to return something that had been gifted to him? The jacket could stay there, or be tossed back to the thrift store, or burned for all he cares, and Emmet could once again sleep soundly at night without the threat of Baby constantly looming overhead. All things considered, it hadn't been such a bad escape attempt. A little plot-heavy, but sex and emotion aside, Emmet feels somewhat proud of all the effort his imagination had dedicated to it. Hell, he'd even managed to work some photography in there, as laughable as it had seemed that someone with such large, cumbersome hands could hold his camera so—

He halts mid-insult.

Baby's hands had held the camera perfectly. Thick fingers wrapped around the cover. A streak of red hair shooting out from behind it. A reminder of something oddly familiar. He blinks, and the picture comes into focus, clear and blinding as daylight.

It's exactly as it had appeared in his birthday dream.

Shaking, Emmet reaches for the remote and shuts off the TV, but the silence only makes his whirlwind of a mind spin faster.

_The party. The cake. Candles flickering._

Had he been thinking of it recently?

_The noise around them. Deedee beside him. A figure in front, holding the camera._

Is that why he'd borrowed the stranger's image?

_Big hands. Red hair._

Why the two had overlapped so perfectly?

_A night they can't quite remember._

Not that Baby had—

_The body in his bed._

Not that he'd—

 _The shadow wearing his_ _jacket._

He was—

_Something there that shouldn't have been._

Emmet's lungs scream for oxygen.

It's not possible. It can't be. Baby was nothing more than a distraction, an insignificant speck under a streetlight, and Emmet—Emmet was just lonely, as Meagan had said. Looking to pull someone into his thoughts, into his bed, regardless of who they were, what they encompassed. Of course Baby had never been at the party. The idea itself is beyond absurd, and if Emmet is suddenly going to surrender his intellect and start believing every stupid thing he sees in his dreams, he might as well save himself the effort and jump straight to—

_You look so good, I just wanna remember this forever._

He swallows repeatedly until he succeeds in pushing the sound of Baby's voice from his ears, only to discover—with a sickening dread—that his own is much louder and far more distressing.

The deal they'd struck, in the midst of their teasing and play-fighting, when Baby's arms were around his waist, and his breath hot on his skin—what had made Emmet think to suggest it? Baby was a stranger; he'd never let him look at—

_Please. I'll do anythin'._

Emmet had been through the album. _Deedee_ had been through the album. Had something as embarrassing resided in there, one of them would have found it and held it over his head for all eternity. But neither had. Because it doesn't exist. And Emmet is a fool to have thought—

 _It'll be fun._ _Like our little secret._

Licking the taste of doubt from his lips, he stumbles from the couch to the bedroom, throws the closet door open and seizes the album.

Nothing inside has changed. It's the same arrangement of faces, streaking past at lightspeed: Deedee, Emmet, Deedee, Emmet. The first pass offers no surprises; the second even less. By the third, Emmet begins to scrutinize each photo carefully, but the only new information he gathers is that Deedee tends to tilt her head to the left while smiling, and there are two stubborn curls of his hair that refuse to fall in line with the rest, a sight most evident in his 33rd birthday photo. As he looks it over, he starts to wonder where he had gone wrong that night. Just how drunk had he gotten? Too drunk to comb his hair? Too drunk to remember blowing out his candles or smiling for the person who'd taken his picture? Too drunk to figure out how he'd ended up with Baby's jacket on his closet floor?

No, that isn't fair; alcohol may have been what had started all this, but it's not the reason he's here now, on his knees, rifling through past memories at the behest of present nightmares. Something about those dreams, about the picture that stares up at him, gives him an odd, unnerving feeling, like ants crawling on his skin. Cautiously, he runs his fingers along the edge, and that's when he first notices it: a small, white shape peeking out from behind the photo, so close to the corner, neither he nor Deedee would have caught it, even if they had been searching.

No problem. This kind of shit happens all the time. All he needs to do is realign the photo behind it. But when he turns the page, he sees the same anomaly on the opposite side, almost as if it were—

Emmet flips back, checks again, but there can be no mistaking it. Something is there, sandwiched between the two. And regardless of how hard he tries, he simply can't keep his curiosity at bay. Sucking in a sharp breath, he pries apart the plastic, his fingers too terrified, too eager to wedge themselves between the photos. The sweat on their tips catches almost immediately, and Emmet, in too deep to stop, slowly begins to slide the picture out.

He knows what it is the moment the arm of the sofa comes into view.

_No. Please, no._

The image is nauseatingly perfect. From his legs folded in front of him to the jacket hanging off his shoulder, the freckles dotting his skin—it's all there in crisp and vivid color, as if someone had reached inside his head and dragged it into reality. And it makes Emmet's blood run ice cold.

 _No. No. This can't be happening_. Why _—how_ does he have this? Where did it come from? What had it been doing in his album? Did he put it there? Did Baby—

His vision trembles, questions vibrating under his fingertips. The photo smiles in silence.

Stuffing it into his back pocket, he races to the living room to grab his jacket.

 

Deedee is sitting out on the stoop when he comes weaving his way through the straggling trick-or-treaters, a large bowl of candy on her lap and a cat-eared headband holding back her blonde waves. "Well, well, well," she grins, causing the crooked whiskers painted across her cheeks to warp even further, "look who decided to come Trick-or-Treating after all. Let me guess, you're dressed as Beetle Bailey wearing Sarge's coat? Very niche. I like it."

"Deedee, I need to speak with you right away," Emmet gasps, winded from the pathetic half-jog he'd taken from the bus stop three blocks over. "Upstairs."

"Does it have something to do with—"

_"Now."_

"Alright, jeez. I'm going, OK?" Climbing to her feet, she digs a hand into her sweatshirt pocket to retrieve her keys, only to realize that Emmet has already opened the front door with his spare set. "Hey, wait—"

"What?"

Deedee thrusts the bowl against his chest. "I don't know what you're pulling, Em, but you're taking a piece of candy for the road. Raise your blood sugar, drop the attitude."

He doesn't have time for this. "Fine. Just grab me an Almond Joy and let's go."

"Ew. Why not just eat— _Hey!"_ She shouts after him, but Emmet can barely hear it over the sound of his feet trampling the stairs. By the time she catches up, he's halfway into the apartment, swaying between the kitchen and living room as though trying to pace a trench into the hardwood floor. Kicking the door shut behind her, Deedee slams the bowl down onto the sofa in a colorful eruption of fun-size treats. "You wanna tell me what the hell is going on here?"

Emmet yanks the Polaroid from his pocket and holds it out to her. "I need you to take a look at this."

Brows scrunched and nose wrinkling in confusion, Deedee takes the photo and quietly sweeps her gaze over it. After a few tense seconds—in which Emmet feels he may never breathe again—she looks up and flatly remarks, "Nice socks."

Emmet's hands fly to his forehead, fingers curling inward as if they'd like to rip out his prefrontal cortex. "Could you please just take things seriously for one _fucking_ time in your life?"

"Well what the hell am I supposed to say?" She shouts back. "You come waltzing into my apartment and just whip out your boudoir photos like it's a fucking takeout menu."

"It's not—you're not getting it."

"Not getting _what?"_ Glancing down again, Deedee's eyes widen. "Wait, did you—did you have sex on the couch? Emmet, I sit on that couch."

"I swear to god, Dee," Emmet groans, "this is not a joke."

_"Then tell me what it is."_

The massive knot formerly known as his guts attempts to draw Emmet's throat into its clutches, but Emmet beats it back with a harsh gulp. "That guy I met. From the bar. Baby. I think he took that photo."

"Why?" She asks. "Because you're wearing his jacket?"

"No, because—because I _dreamed_ about it." His eyes dart from Deedee's face to the photo, words, thoughts racing along with them. "We were in my apartment, a-and he wanted a picture of me in the jacket, so I let him, and he—he took it and then I said I'd put it in the album, and when I woke up that's where it was. It was hidden. I never would have found it unless—the dream— _he_ took it, Dee. He was—"

The world around him—frozen in place by the shock of his discovery—spins back to life with a vengeance, upside-down and off its axis. "He was...in my apartment. He was in my bed. Oh, god, I—I slept with him. I—"

Deedee's palms clasp his cheeks. "Em—Emmet, come back to me. Emmet, _breathe."_

He hears her voice, tries to speak, but the only word his terrified lungs can manage to shake out is "But—"

"It wasn't real, Em," she says. "He wasn't in your apartment. You had a bad dream."

"But—th-the photo—"

"—could have been taken by anyone. Or maybe you took it yourself. Did you think of that?"

Neck muscles screaming in agony, Emmet shakes his head. "It can't—the angle is all wrong, and—and—"

"So then one of your exes took it. And you got so embarrassed, you hid it and blocked it from your memory. Why don't you try asking Damon? You still have his number, right?"

He freezes. "N-no."

"Then just let it go."

"But—but the party—my thirty-third birthday—we can't remember who was there—we don't know who took the photo—we—"

"Em, it wasn't him." Her expression is unbearably soft, her skin too warm on Emmet's face. "Whatever you think happened, it's all a coincidence. The dreams, the photo, the jacket—"

"But then how did it—" He hiccups. "—how did it get in my closet, Dee?"

"Listen, Em," she tells him, "this is what you're gonna do. You're gonna go home, you're gonna shove that jacket into a trash bag, and you're gonna take it straight to the thrift shop before work tomorrow. Forget about calling the guy. It's not worth the torture you're putting yourself through." Gently, she brushes her thumb over his cheek, wiping away a tear he hadn't known he'd shed. "OK?"

Emmet nods slowly, breathes a few ragged breaths. "Y-Yeah."

"Good." With a light pat, Deedee pulls her hands back, and Emmet feels the photo peel away from his cheek, never realizing she'd still been holding it. Fingers numb, he reaches out and calmly takes it from her.

"Hey, why don't you stay awhile," she says. "We can have a couple drinks, watch a movie, eat the rest of the candy I bought. Those kids are young; they'll get more. We're the ones who need to enjoy it while we can." She offers him a feeble wink, but for once it doesn't stick.

"No thanks," Emmet replies, trying not to steal another glance as he pockets the photo. "I think I'm just gonna go home and get some rest." He starts to head for the door, but is stopped by Deedee's hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, remember what I said, OK? And text me when you get home."

"Sure, Dee. Promise."

 

Emmet does neither of those things.

He'd be lying if he said he'd forgotten her advice, especially when it had been given with a look fit to break his heart into pieces. But listening and following through are two different ends of the spectrum, and no matter how hard he looks, Emmet can never seem to grasp more than a narrow sliver. He doesn't exactly have the will to try right now, too tired to make it past the kitchen before slumping against the wall and sinking to the floor by the fridge, photo in one hand, phone in the other, open to one message in particular:

_please take care of my jacket for me_

But Emmet can't keep his promise any longer. He can't live his life forever wondering when Baby would come to call on him. He has to do this for himself; he simply can't wait.

Turns out Deedee had been right the first time.

He takes a deep breath and punches in a message too long in the making:

 **E:** _Hey, it's Emmet. Are you back from your trip yet?_

Then, he waits. Counts the seconds, _ten, eleven, twelve,_ before the ellipsis pops up on the screen, followed by a quick response.

 **B:** _hey_

Emmet is still processing those three little letters when he sees another response incoming, the dots there and gone and there again, as if Baby were drafting him a novel.

 **B:** _Been back forawhile. Sorry I dint call sooner_ **.** _Guess I go t busy_

The excuse is equal parts vague and infuriating, and Emmet finds himself stabbing at the keyboard.

 **E:** _It's fine.  
_ **E:** _I still need to give you back your jacket._

It takes even longer for Baby's reply to come through this time. Though Emmet considers he might just be rechecking his spelling.

 **B:** _Yeah, sure. Thanks for hanging on to it for me_

As if Emmet had a choice.

 **B:** _Did you want to meet at OReilly's again  
_ **B:** _Or I know a good sandwich shop if you wanna get something to eat_

Neither of those sound appealing to him. But if he wants to get this over and done with, he's going to have to suck it up and pick something. _The bar will be fine_ he starts to type, but the second his thumb moves to hit Send, he stops. From the corner of his eye, he sees the photo staring up at him, his smile crystal clear despite the bends and creases his nervous hands had dealt it.

A terrifying thought crosses his mind.

If Baby had been there—if he'd taken the photo as the dream had led him to believe—then it would stand to reason that he should recognize his apartment. It's not as if the furniture is brand new, or that he'd rearranged it more than twice in the six-and-a-half years he's lived here. If Baby had set foot inside there at all, surely he would realize it. And if he walks through the door and doesn't notice a thing? Well, that would just prove both he and Deedee had been right about his mind playing tricks on him. That he would never sleep with someone like Baby.

All he has to do is ask.

His better judgment rails against him with every beat of his heart—louder, faster, relentless. But Emmet has made up his mind. Tonight, his thirst for knowledge has won out.

 **E:** _Can you come to my place instead?_

An excruciating moment passes, then:

 **B:** _Sure  
_ **B:** _Where do you live?_

Emmet sends his address over along with the nearest bus route, then asks, _Is Friday night good for you?_ Baby's response isn't exactly reassuring.

 **B:** _Can we do Saturday instead?_

 _Great_. As if Emmet needed an extra day to contemplate his poor decision-making skills.

 **E:** _Fine. How about 8PM?  
_ **B:** _Sounds good_

He watches the dots appear again, another long stretch, another supposed novel that ends in an anticlimactic whimper:

 **B:** _See you then_

With that, their conversation goes silent. Though Emmet wonders if Baby has truly gone, or if he's also sitting on the floor of his apartment, clutching his phone as he anticipates a reply. But there is nothing more Emmet can offer other than the promise of a stiff neck and aching legs, so he picks himself up and heads off to bed, praying he can make it there before his regrets catch up with him, knowing deep down that he doesn't stand a chance.

 

 

No amount of half-assed coping, mental gymnastics, or semi-angry pep-talks from Deedee could have prepared Emmet for the knock that arrives at his door shortly after 8PM on Saturday.

He's checking himself in the bathroom mirror again, debating whether he should change from his favorite orange plaid button-up into something more sweat-concealing, when the echo comes tearing through the apartment, loud and urgent as gunfire. He startles, rubs his ashen cheeks to coax them back to life, then hurries into the living room, fingers crossed that whoever is lurking outside is a pizza delivery mix-up or a murderer looking for their next kill—neither option less preferable than the other.

But it's only Baby on the opposite side of the peephole, staring down at himself as he smooths his palms over the front of his bright green sweater. The second Emmet opens the door, he snaps to attention, arms dropping to his sides. "H-Hey. Sorry I'm late."

It's 8:04. Emmet has ridden buses less punctual and spoken to drivers nowhere near as polite about it. "It—It's fine," he croaks back, underestimating how badly his chest would constrict at the sight of him. "You—" _Look nice_ are the words that pop into his head—on instinct, out of surprise, true in every sense of the phrase: Baby's khakis are neatly pressed, his cheeks smooth and bright, not a curl out of place seeking to be swept away by Emmet's fingers.

Emmet tightens his grip on the knob, as though meaning to crush the thought beneath it. "You should probably come in. It's cold out there." Stepping aside, he holds the door open for Baby. Because it's polite. Because it gives him something to hide behind. Because no matter where Baby is, he's always too close, and Emmet doesn't want to notice his pale eyelashes, or the freckles on the tips of his ears, or the spicy aroma of cinnamon and clove that trails behind him as he walks—details absent from his dreams, now shining like spotlights in the dark. Questions that flicker in and out: _Why are his lashes so long? Where did those freckles come from? Did he smell this good the last time? Does he_ always _smell this good?_

He coughs into his fist, but the scent of Baby's cologne still tickles his lungs. Baby looks at him and frowns.

"Are ya sick? I can come back some other time if—"

"No, no—it's just—" Just the fleeting urge to bury his nose in Baby's neck and breathe in until he forgets why he'd invited him here in the first place. Just his dreams messing with his head, as he feared they might. "I just need a glass of water or something." Shutting the door behind them, he heads straight for the kitchen. "You can leave your shoes on the mat over there," he says, without so much as a glance over his shoulder or a gesture in the proper direction. "I made some coffee if you'd like a cup."

"Um, yeah, that sounds good actually," he hears Baby reply.

But Emmet doesn't make it to the pot before a faint rustle of movement, speckled with muted grunts, captures his attention. Itching with curiosity, he turns to see Baby hunched over by the door, attempting to balance on one leg while simultaneously tugging off his boot. He looks, for all intents and purposes, like a buff species of flamingo, and as Emmet leans over the kitchen bar to watch his plight, he finds himself struck with a somewhat pleasant disbelief: This _is the man from my dreams? The one I'd entrusted my camera to? Was I crazy?_

Of course not. The only logical explanation is that he'd simply imagined it all. And blame it on a sudden rush of encouragement, or the sight of Baby comically tumbling backwards as he attempts to switch feet, but Emmet feels a feather-soft laugh tickling the back of his throat, his lips happily twitching up to meet it.

He wipes them clean before the smile has a chance to take root.

With his boots now gone, and his colorful socks on full display, Baby crosses the living room to where Emmet is standing. "Is that good?" He asks, tipping his flushed face towards the mat.

"Hmm?" Emmet's mind is too fuzzy to comprehend the question, enraptured as it is by the tiny teddy bear faces he'd glimpsed all over Baby's feet. "Oh—Oh, you're fine," he says, smothering yet another laugh. "Sorry for the trouble. It's mainly to keep things clean."

"Yeah, I get it. It's no trouble at all." His hands settle atop the back of one chair, but give no indication of an intent to move it. That's fine; Emmet isn't sure he wants him to sit anyway. Plus, if he were being honest with himself, the view from here gives him the perfect opportunity to inspect Baby's massive paws, from his closely-trimmed fingernails to his thick wrists, pale fuzz peeking out beneath the cuffs of his sleeves. Until Baby, he'd never been with a redhead before. _Hasn't,_ actually. It's stupid that he would need to keep reminding himself.

"Um...hey, Emmet?"

Emmet perks up. "Yeah?"

"Not to alarm ya...but I think your coffee might be burnin'."

 _"Shit."_ Whipping around, he snatches the carafe from the coffee maker, its pungent odor a welcome, if not unpleasant distraction from Baby's scent. "I—I forgot this old thing doesn't always shut itself off. I'll put on another pot—"

"Oh, no, you don't hafta do that on account a'me. I'll still drink it. I don't mind."

Emmet stops pouring the coffee down the drain and pivots to face him. "Are you sure? It's not a big deal, really."

"Nah, don't bother," Baby smiles, dimples on full display. "I appreciate ya thinkin' 'bout me, though."

His heart beating faster at the assumption— _I wasn't I wasn't I wasn't_ —Emmet turns back and sets the pot down, busies himself with fetching some mugs. The first door he opens is full of spices, the second plates, and right as he catches himself reaching for the microwave handle, he remembers the mugs are just off to his left, in the slim cabinet above the coffee maker. Discreetly wiping his clammy palms on his jeans, he grabs two and thanks the universe there's already a spoon inside the sugar bowl. Given the task, he's not entirely confident he'd be able to locate his silverware drawer at present. "How do you want it?" He asks, then rushes to add, "Your coffee," once he realizes how suggestive the question might sound.

"No milk, please. And four sugars."

 _Four sugars?_ Emmet has to say it aloud to believe it. "You want four spoonfuls of sugar?"

Baby chuckles at his back. "Yeah, all the guys at work like to make fun a'me for it, but I can't help if I got a little sweet tooth."

With that much sugar, Emmet is surprised he has _any_ teeth. Though it would explain why Baby had tasted sweet in all the right places—a thought innocent yet filthy enough to make his cheeks burn. "Four sugars...coming right up." He numbers each measure carefully, adds one spoonful to his own, tries not to think of running his tongue over the curve while he imagines Baby's mouth burning rich and hot beneath a candy-coating of coffee. Luckily for his tortured thoughts, there isn't enough sugar in the bowl if Baby were to ask for a second cup. But Emmet won't allow it to get that far. Baby has taken up too much of his time as it is.

"I hope I got it right," he says as he turns and places Baby's mug in front of him. "I may have lost count back there."

"Don't worry. I'm sure it'll be great." Grasping it in both hands, Baby raises the drink to his lips, but stops short of taking a sip, his bright eyes finding Emmet's through the steam. "Thanks, by the way. I can't remember the last time anyone's made me coffee."

Emmet's fingers tremble around the mug handle. "Oh. It's…" _It's not so bad, actually,_ he thinks. The way Baby had looked at him then—the glint in his eyes, same as it had been in his dreams—doesn't bother him as much as he'd expected. And as he stands there, safe on the opposite side of the counter, and watches Baby drink his coffee, he feels that maybe he could survive a little more of this—just one more sip, one more second, one more snippet of conversation. Just for tonight. "Does the coffee taste alright?" he asks. "Other than the fact that it's burnt?"

Baby lowers his cup and smiles warmly. "It's _perfect."_

That word—the ease with which it rolls off of his tongue—leaves a bitter residue in Emmet's mouth, exponentially worse than the swig of coffee he forces himself to stomach. "It's...palatable, I guess." He looks into his mug, lets out a nervous laugh. "You know, I've got a friend who's kind of a coffee snob. She'd probably kill me if she caught me serving this."

 _Why?_ Why had he told him that? Baby doesn't need to know about his life. He doesn't need another excuse to smile and blush and gaze at Emmet as though he hasn't seen him in years. Like he's doing now. "Yeah? Well you look kinda sophistis—kinda fancy yourself.

Is...that supposed to be a compliment? "Uh...th— _how?"_

"I-It's just…" Baby stumbles over the question, as though he'd been asked to present his theory on the origins of the universe. "I mean—You got a nice place, and ya look ni—like the type of guy who'd go to nice restaurants or—or throw wine parties an' stuff."

 _Wine parties? What the hell does that mean?_ "I don't—Is that even a thing?"

"Umm...maybe? I—" Averting his gaze, Baby takes another sip of coffee, the mug lingering on his lips just long enough to arouse Emmet's suspicion.

Well, that had turned awkward fast. Not to say the situation wasn't awkward enough already, but at least Emmet had been doing an admirable job pretending to have a handle on things. Now all he wants to do is usher Baby out before his stomach decides to digest itself. His experiment is over anyway; if Baby had been there before, he clearly would have recognized something by now. There's no need to keep dragging this out further.

"I'll go get your jacket," he says, then strides off towards the bedroom, leaving Baby to cower behind his drink alone.

After he'd showered and dressed that day, and made his bed as tidy as possible, Emmet had laid the jacket on top of it and smoothed out the wrinkles with his hands, as atonement for all the times he'd left it crumpled in places it didn't belong. It's still waiting there when he turns on the light, sleeves spread wide, ready to throw its arms around his neck in a parting hug. Delicately scooping it up, he cradles it close to his chest and carries it out, knowing the only thing he'll miss about it is how warm it had made him feel on cold, empty nights.

"Here you go," he says to Baby, draping the jacket over the kitchen chair next to him. "Sorry I didn't get it cleaned first. I couldn't really find the time." Hopefully Deedee had been wrong about the smell. He doesn't want to think about Baby carrying the memory of him around on his back once they've parted.

Baby reaches out and brushes his fingertips over the peeling remnants of his last name. "I'm sure it's OK," he replies, though Emmet can't help but notice how his lashes tremble, and his words seem to be sprinkled with disappointment. Drawing his hand back slowly, he looks up and asks, "Is it alright if I stay 'til I finish my coffee?"

It's not, but Emmet hasn't quite figured out how to express that yet. "Sure. Make yourself comfortable," he says, knowing full well that neither of them are capable of grasping the concept of "comfort" tonight.

With a small nod of thanks, Baby takes his mug and embarks on a leisurely stroll around the room. He passes the front door again, glances over at the barren coat rack, stops to stare at the row of half-dead succulents that line the windowsill. The floorboards creak in his wake, but otherwise everything remains calm and quiet. Restless. Depressing. So unbearably lonely, Emmet finds himself more than willing to step in and break it. "So, how long have you lived here?"

"Hmm?" Baby looks back at him.

"It's the accent," he explains. "It kind of gives it away."

"Oh. A few months now."

 _Just a few months?_ Well, that's a relief _._ Not only could Baby have never been in his apartment, he couldn't possibly have attended his thirty-third birthday party either. "Where are you originally from, then?" Emmet asks, his tone already much happier.

"Georgia. Little town you'd probably never heard of." Baby's smile returns, albeit slightly weaker than before. "It's an alright place, but it's not, if ya catch my drift. I couldn't really see myself stayin' for long. Believe it or not, I actually lived up here for a while, couple years ago. Then I went home for a bit, but like I said, I couldn't stay. So I came back an' now I'm just tryin' to get used to it again." He laughs. "It's a little chilly, y'know."

There's no need to remind Emmet of that; he can feel the ice in his veins, circulating throughout his body. "How long were you in Georgia? When did you move there?"

"Um…" Baby pauses to think. "Maybe last summer? Like July or August? That's when I found out my jacket was missin'. I remember packin' up my stuff an' I couldn't find it. I looked everywhere but I already bought the bus ticket, so I had to go without it." He takes a sip of coffee, and when he lowers the mug again, Emmet can see that he's blushing a little. "I know I seemed kinda mad a first, but I'm real glad you found it for me. If there's anything I can do to repay you, all ya gotta do is ask."

Emmet wonders if asking him to turn back the clock so he'd never left Georgia to begin with would be too impossible. _"No._ I mean—it's alright, you don't have to repay me. I'm just happy I could get your jacket back to you." _Happier than you could know._ Even if Baby's answer had threatened his tenuous peace-of-mind.

Flashing a smile that makes Emmet shy even farther into the kitchen, Baby begins to edge forward. "Have you ever—"

"Watch your head!"

The warning comes too little too late; before Baby has a chance to duck, he clips his forehead on one of the styrofoam planets hanging from the solar system mobile that dangles between the window and the couch. Uranus, from the look of it. "Ah, shit, I'm sorry," he blurts out. "Did I break anythin'?"

"No, no, you're good," Emmet says. "It's my fault anyway for forgetting to warn you. I don't usually have people over five-and-a-half feet around here."

"Nah, I was the one who wasn't payin' attention. Or maybe I jus' felt short next to you."

"Maybe by three inches tops." Emmet can't help that he was gifted with the height of a basketball player and absolutely none of the talent.

"It's really cool by the way," Baby gushes. "Your little hanger thing. Did ya make it yourself?"

"It's a mobile, and yeah, I made it when I was eight."

"Wow, you were pretty sharp for a kid. When I was eight I think I was still sittin' in my yard catchin' worms and makin' mud cakes."

"It's...nothing special really," Emmet says. Just another piece of nostalgia his mother had guilt-tripped him into keeping.

Brow pinched in disagreement, Baby looks at Emmet's mobile again, squints his eyes and then points a thick finger. "Hey, I'm no astronaut, but I think yer missin' a planet."

It isn't missing so much as it had been flattened to a pancake under Brian Bartram's foot on the morning of the third grade science fair, because, as Emmet had been told, Brian was bored and had left his frisbee at home. "Yeah, well Pluto isn't a planet anymore, so I guess it doesn't matter."

"Oh." Baby frowns. "Did ya get an A at least?"

"No." He tries not to sound too bitter about it.

"Well, if I was your teacher, I'd give ya an A-plus."

"Th-thanks, that's…" _It's not fair._ Baby shouldn't get to tell him these things. He shouldn't be allowed to make him feel so confused, to have him wondering how red the tips of his ears might be, or if he'd been wrong to think he was just like all the others. "That's very nice of you to say," he finishes, somewhat reluctantly.

"Did ya make that too?"

Emmet stops mulling over his assumptions and his cherry-colored ears and follows the line of Baby's index finger, its target being his old planetarium lamp on the table next to the sofa. "Oh, no. I bought that. There's a huge difference between slapping glitter paint on fake planets and building a working star projector. One is easy, the other will get you grounded for punching holes in your mom's good cookware."

The two of them share a laugh, and for the briefest of moments, Emmet feels that same warmth that had coursed through him in his dreams, fluttering deep within his chest like an insect caught in a trap. He timidly turns his eyes away. "It's been a long time since I used that old thing. I should probably get rid of it. It's always looked kind of stupid just sitting there next to the couch."

"Nah, I think it looks cool," Baby says. "It almost matches yer pillows." He steps closer, raking his gaze over the sofa. "Hey...you didn't get your couch from Furniture Dump did ya?"

"No, why?"

"It's just...it looks kinda familiar."

A chill shoots down Emmet's spine. "Familiar how?" _Familiar in an 'I own one just like it' way? Or an 'I remember you trying to hump me on it once' way?_

"I think—" He pauses to drink his coffee, compelling Emmet to remind himself not to tear his own fingernails out with his teeth. "Yeah, an old buddy a'mine used to work there years ago. I was wonderin' if maybe you got it from him."

 _Oh, thank god._ Emmet exhales. "No, I bought it at the thrift store. That's where I do most of my shopping. You know, student loans and all."

Baby laughs into his mug. "I guess I wouldn't." Without further remark or recollection, his eyes drift away from the sofa, landing on the two framed photos that adorn the wall behind it: a kitten on the left, tiger lilies on the right, both images bearing all the charm and personality of something found hanging in a physician's office. "What about those? They yours?"

 _Christ, how long does it take to drink a cup of coffee?_ Between the incessant questions and the urge to jump out of his skin every time Baby looks at his furniture a certain way, Emmet feels he could up and keel over at the drop of a hat. "They're just some pictures Dee—my friend got me as a joke. Because I'm allergic to everything. I don't hang any of my photos."

Baby beams with interest, "You're a photographer?"

 _Shit._ "I'm not. I mean, I like taking photos, but it's not something I do for a living."

"What do you do, then?"

If Emmet were smarter, he would have held onto his mug so he could hide behind it as Baby had done. If he were braver, he might have told him the truth. And if he were colder, maybe it wouldn't sting so much when Baby's eyes soften and his lips curve downward in shame, as if he can't stomach the hurt he may have caused. If Emmet were a better man, maybe he could say something to reassure him. But he's not, so all he does is stand there and keep his thoughts locked up tight.

After a moment of silence, Baby turns to his left, focusing his gaze on the bookcase instead of Emmet's pained expression. "Wow, you got a lotta books. It's almost like a library." His laugh echoes weakly. "I'm kinda jealous."

Emmet pushes the sadness from his voice, "I...never thought of it like that before. But I guess I do tend to hang onto things. Especially books I enjoy." The sci-fi novels, not the chemistry texts from last semester that he'd been too grief-stricken to put into storage. Though he doubts Baby will be able to make the distinction. Still, he certainly seems enthralled by Emmet's collection, examining each spine with a slow drag of his finger. One book in particular seems to catch his attention, and Emmet hears him gasp in excitement.

"Oh man, you have _Heartthrob of the Highlands?_ I love that book."

 _Huh?_ That doesn't sound like something Carl Sagan would have written. Emmet wrinkles his nose. "Is that...some kind of romance novel?"

"Well, yeah," Baby says. "Only the best ever."

Somehow, Emmet doubts that. Unless they were giving Hugos and Pulitzers to anyone these days. He also questions how something so trashy-sounding had ended up on his shelf to begin with. "You know, I'm not sure I remember where that came from." Deedee had once replaced all the cash in his wallet with Monopoly money; maybe she'd been behind this prank as well. "To be honest, I haven't looked at any of those books in a long time."

"Really? But it's so _good._ I ended up checkin' it outta the library like five times." Glancing over at him, he asks, "Do ya mind if I flip through it? For old time's sake?"

Emmet shrugs. "Sure, knock yourself out."

He can almost feel Baby's delighted squeal as he sets his mug down on the shelf and slides the book from its resting place, opening to a random page and reading aloud: "'She watched him gallop proudly over the hills, her bosom swelling at the sight of his kilt fluttering in the wind, a field of tartan butterflies.'"

"Oh, f—"  Emmet has to cover his mouth to keep from exploding with laughter. "It's...beautiful," he mumbles against his fingertips.

"Ain't it?" says Baby. "I can't believe ya don't remember readin' it."

"Well, refresh my memory then."

"See, there's this girl—"

"Let me guess, her name is Catherine?" There's always a Catherine in these things.

"Kate."

Close enough. "So Kate meets the _Heartthrob of the Highlands?"_

"Brennan. He comes into her husband's shop—her husband's a blacksmith, by the way, an' she's stuck in this loveless marriage with him."

 _Lonely wife?_ Check. _Dubious historical setting?_ Check. _Cringe-inducing erotic language?_ Had the book not appeared brand new, he might have thought he'd accidentally grabbed it from his mom's dresser drawer decades ago. "Go on…"

"So Brennan goes to the shop because he needs a sword to fight one of the rival clans—"

"And they fall in love?"

Baby frowns slightly. "Not at first—well, Kate does, but Brennan is kinda stubborn an' wild. He doesn't wanna settle down with anyone."

"But they do eventually live happily ever after, right?"

He smiles then, and Emmet can see its sparkle from across the room. "She runs away to the mountains to live with him an' his clan. I mean, there's a ton a'stuff that happens in between, but at the end they're both happy."

"Yeah, until the British come," Emmet jokes.

"Huh?"

"It's nothing, just—" Chuckling, he shakes his head. "I wouldn't think you'd be into this."

"What? Readin' books?"

"Reading books written to appeal to bored housewives standing in line at the supermarket."

"What kinda stuff am I supposed to read, then?" Baby asks innocently.

"Well…" _Well_ what, _Emmet? TV guides? Home gym manuals? Restaurant placemats?_ "What I meant was you look like the kind of guy who'd be more into action movies than romances."

"Oh." Voice soft and sullen, Baby closes the book and stares down at the cover. "I guess I just...like how they make me feel. Readin' 'em is probably the closest I'll get to—to an interestin' life."

Emmet's guilty heart shouts in contrition: _Say something to him. Tell him you didn't mean it. Apologize._ "That...doesn't sound realistic." _Nice. Grade-A fucking job there, Dr. Asshole._

"I know," Baby says, his cheerful demeanor slowly returning. "But it's still fun to think about it." He turns the book so Emmet can see the front. "I mean, who wouldn't want their life to be this cool?"

 _Cool_ isn't exactly how Emmet would describe whatever the hell it is he's looking at. But if Baby wants to picture himself as a long-haired, bare-chested, kilt-wearing "heartthrob" carrying a swooning woman on horseback, then—

_Oh, fuck._

"You know, I think I did read this once."

"See?" Baby grins. "Told ya it was too good to forget."

"No, it's not that," Emmet says. "I vaguely remember there being this weird handwritten note on the inside cover that the previous owner must have made. That's probably the only reason I kept the book for so long. It's almost too interesting to throw out."

"Oh yeah?" Peeling the cover open, Baby recites: "'Thanks for giving me a chance. Don't forget to wear your socks.'"

"I know it sounds silly," Emmet laughs, blushing. "But the funny thing is I get really cold feet in the winter—or hot and sweaty in the summer—so I wear socks all the time. Oh, except when I'm in...the...shower…"

His voice trails off, its echo an icy kiss against his ears.

 _Something's not right._ Baby is staring at the book in eerie silence, the rosy tint that had clung to his cheeks now faded to a pale cream. Gathering his courage, Emmet asks, "Is everything OK?"

Nothing. He feels a shiver creep across his skin and tries again. "Baby?"

Gradually, Baby lifts his head, and Emmet doesn't need to see the terror flashing in his blue eyes to know that whatever the answer, it isn't going to be pleasant. "Emmet, this is my handwritin'."

The half-mug of coffee tossing around in the pit of Emmet's stomach makes a brave attempt to climb back up. "No—No, you're—" He coughs out a laugh, tastes the acid on his tongue. "You're fucking with me. Because I teased you about the book."

Baby clutches the cover for dear life, his knuckles, his face bleeding color with each passing second. "I-I swear, I wouldn't—why would I make somethin' like this up?"

_Because—Because if it were true, then—_

"Well, you're wrong," Emmet insists. "My friend wrote that. She's always joking around—"

"You think I don't recognize my own writin'?" He storms over, turning the book outwards. "Just look at it—"  

Images of that night at the bar flash across Emmet's vision. Recoiling in fear, he clenches his eyes, shields his face from the incoming attack. "It's not—no—wait—"

But nothing happens. He breathes in, breathes out. Feels his heart beating. Listens to the rhythm of his body.

The rest is silence. He's alone again. He's dreaming. He has to be.

Then, softly, he hears a sniffle. And another. A choir full of them. Instincts forgotten, he lowers his hands and pries his eyes open, only to see Baby standing there with big, thick tears beading down his cheeks. "Emmet, what's goin' on? How'd my writin' get in your book?"

 _He's crying._ Emmet shouldn't have to repeat that to himself, or number each of the droplets that fall from Baby's chin until he takes it as fact. _He's crying_. And for all his bitterness and antipathy he can't stand thinking that somehow he had been the cause of it.

"It's...alright, Baby." The words slip like grains of sand through an hourglass, tumbling recklessly, one after another. "You don't need to cry. We can—We'll figure—" He stops blathering for a moment and takes the book from Baby's shaky grasp, its inscription clean and neat and undeniable:

_Don't forget to wear your socks._

It has to be a coincidence. There's no way Baby could have known about that unless Emmet had told him. Or shown him personally, in his bed, on his couch, everything stripped bare except his feet. And because Emmet doesn't have the resolve or desire to consider the latter option, he clears his throat, sets the book down on the counter and tries to come up with something to convince both of them that they'd been wrong. "Look, I must have picked it up at the thrift store. You said you moved last year. Maybe you donated it and didn't remember?"

Baby wipes his tear-stained cheeks with his sleeve. "But I always got my books from the library. Even if I did own a copy, it wouldn't look half as nice as yours." He sniffles, "An' it still doesn't explain how you got my jacket."

His eyes, red as they are, still cling to their pretty blue, colors boring a hole into Emmet's conscience. "Are you sure? I mean—maybe it was just—"

_It was just_

_Just_

_Just stop. Please. For Baby's sake._

Defeated, Emmet takes a deep breath. "Would it—would it be alright if I showed you something...slightly inappropriate?"

The question has only just left his mouth when Baby's cheeks blossom into color again. "Oh. Um..." He rubs his nose, scratches the back of his head, does everything he can to avoid looking into Emmet's eyes. "Y-Yeah, sure."

"Wait here, I'll be right back."

Emmet swears he has never moved so fast in his life.

Barreling through the bedroom door, he rushes to grab the album—stops, reconsiders, flips to the party photo and pries it from the slot before discarding the book on the mattress. The other item he needs is sitting atop his dresser—in plain sight, in all its shame and glory—and as he snatches it up on the way back to the living room, he can almost feel its aura smiling at him, as if the thought of what he's about to do hadn't been humiliating enough.

"Take a look at this," he tells Baby, thrusting the first photo at his chest. "Tell me if you recognize anything."

Like a child wary of taking candy from a stranger, Baby grips the edges of the Polaroid between his thumb and forefinger and cautiously peers down. "Th-That's you," he says, relief vibrating through a static of confusion. "A-And a girl. And it looks like...the Iron Fence? Yeah, I think that's the place. I ate there a couple a'times. Their burgers are pretty good."

"Anything else?" presses Emmet.

"Um...I guess the fries are good too—"

"No, I mean about the photo. Does anything else look familiar?"

He glances at Emmet, frowns. "Is it supposed to?"

"I think you might have taken it," Emmet explains. "About a year-and-a-half ago, at my birthday party."

Squinting his eyes at the picture, Baby says, "I—I don't remember bein' at any party. Are ya sure it was me?"

 _Yes. No._ "Maybe? I was hoping you could tell me."

"Sorry to disappoint ya—" He hands the photo back, "—but how could I be there if we never met yet?"

The answer is a lump in Emmet's throat, a fog inside his head. In the palm of his left hand, the picture of him wearing Baby's jacket burns white-hot, aching to reveal itself. Emmet hesitates, bottom lip caught in a losing battle with his teeth. "It's...not just about the party. I think you took this one as well."

He passes the photo over and watches Baby's eyes grow to the size of saucers. _"Wow."_

"I, um…I—" There are words for this kind of situation, sentences, paragraphs even, but each time Emmet tries to speak, his mind is overwhelmed by the sight of Baby, ogling his exposed parts as if Emmet were a swimsuit model and he'd hit puberty not more than thirty seconds ago. Beating back his embarrassment, he starts over. "I know this might be upsetting to hear, but I think we may have had a one-night-stand that the two of us were too drunk to remember."

Baby quits devouring Emmet's image long enough to glance up. "Wait, what?"

"It probably happened the night of the party. We drank too much at the restaurant, came back here, did... _whatever,_ and when you left, you forgot to take your jacket with you." He recites it the same as in Deedee's fairy-tale, like he were reading a subway map and trying to plot the fastest, least painful route to his destination. "That would explain how it ended up in my closet. And your handwriting in my book. I didn't realize it until I came across this. Tonight was just confirmation."

The entire time Emmet is speaking, Baby's hungry gaze remains glued to the photo, its reflection flickering in turquoise flames . "No," he says, in a voice too calm for his expression. "No, I woulda remembered this."

Fed up with his gawking, Emmet pries the Polaroid from Baby's grasp, causing their fingers touch in the process, though he discovers he couldn't care less. "We were blacked out. Neither of us could have remembered. It's a miracle we were coordinated enough to take a picture."

"No. _No. I_ would." A hint of panic starts to peek through Baby's tone. "I couldn't—there's no way I'd ever forget—"

"I'm sorry, Baby, but that's how it happened," He sighs, forces himself to ignore the distressed look he gets in response. "Listen, I'll give you your jacket back, and you can have the book. Then we can just put this behind us, alright?"

Baby's lips quiver, his gaze flitting from Emmet's face to the photo and back again. "It—"

 _It's not alright._ Emmet doesn't have to hear it for himself, nor does he need to apologize again, but he does anyway, hoping it will make their situation the least bit _alright._ "I really am sorry—"

"Do you...have any more pictures you think I might of taken?"

Emmet narrows his eyes suspiciously at Baby's question. "No. Just those two."

But the look Baby gives him seems to plead otherwise. "Are you sure?"

Those three, innocent words sink their talons into his brain and refuse to let go, all the things Emmet had wanted to believe, all that he couldn't echoing in a haze of doubt, too loud to be ignored, to persistent to be forgotten. His breath catches in his throat, tongue peeling from the roof of his mouth as he orders, "Follow me."

Every ounce of caution thrown to the wind, he leads Baby into his bedroom, kneels in front of the closet and immediately begins to dump the contents of the first shoebox onto the floor. "Look at these and tell me if any of them are familiar," he says, fanning the photos into a galaxy of random scenery.

Baby sits down across from him and examines one image after another: trees, buildings, shadows of old acquaintances running like water through his fingers. His hands are everywhere, touching everything, making Emmet's skin crawl. Emmet tells himself it's for the best. Baby is right; he has to be sure. He can't let him leave until he's proved him wrong. "Anything yet?"

"No?" Baby picks up a photo of the break room at Emmet's work, puts it down just as quickly. "I—I don't know. There's so many."

"Don't rush it," Emmet scolds as he starts to sift through the chaos himself. "Just take your time." On the outskirts of the pile, partially hidden beneath the branch of an elm tree, he glimpses the bright orange dot of Baby's hair and carefully makes a play for it, slipping the photo into his back pocket before Baby can see. "Still nothing?"

"Not yet."

"Let me get some more." Shoving one mess aside in favor of another, Emmet empties the second box. The third follows a few minutes later. Then the fourth, until a mosaic of his life is spread out between them, stretching from the cliffs of his knees to the shores just beyond Baby's ankles. Exhausted, he sits back on his heels. "That's it. This is everything I have."

"But…I don't recognize any a'these," Baby whimpers, stubborn hands unwilling to retreat. "You gotta have somethin' else."

Emmet doesn't know if he should feel pity or compassion, but no matter the emotion, he finds himself wanting to reach out, to curl his fingers around Baby's wrists, put an end to this pointless search. Because he's tired. Because it hurts too much to keep trying. And if someone is going to dash Baby's hopes then it might as well be him. "I'm sorry, Baby. I don't know what it is you're looking for, but I can't help you. Let's just clean this up and call it a night."

Baby gives the photo he's holding a dejected toss back into the pile. "I...jus' thought that maybe…" Slowly, he looks up and something by Emmet's right shoulder catches his eye. "What's in there?"

Twisting around, Emmet sees the clear tote shoved in the corner of his closet. "Oh. Those are just photos I took when I was younger," he says dismissively and starts to gather some of the pictures into a more manageable stack. "There wouldn't be anything in there."

"Can't we look anyway?" Baby begs. "Just a few?"

But Emmet has just about had it. "Baby, _listen—"_

_"Please?"_

He glares at him for a moment, then angrily yanks the bin out of the closet and begins to pull fistful after fistful of photos from it. Because Baby had fucking asked him to. And Emmet had been too weak to say no.

It's that look on his face, he realizes. His voice—too sweet, too hopeful. Too stupid. Everything from his dream come to life.

Another bunch comes out. And another. Tossed towards Baby like refuse.

Why should he care if Baby cries or smiles? Or worry about folding his jacket right, making his coffee the way he likes it? He doesn't know anything about him, except that he's from a town in Georgia, and he eats too much sugar, and is loose with compliments, and that he expects Emmet to tear open old wounds for no goddamn reason at all.

In a fit of rage, Emmet digs his hand into the bottom of the tote, ready to unearth another clutch of crap, when his fingers close around something strange, an object too thick and bulky to belong with the rest of the clutter. Curious, he pulls it out, turns it over for a better look.

It's a brick of photos, held together by two wide, intersecting rubber bands _—_ maybe a dozen of them, maybe more. Certainly nothing that Emmet can remember putting there. But the bin is old, the pictures taken over a decade ago. He could have bundled some of them up _—_ similar scenes, similar emotions _—_ and just plain forgotten about them. Anything was possible.

_Anything was possible._

He runs his thumb along one of the bands, gazes at the colors behind it: pale gray, orange, peach—a kaleidoscope of ill omens, a fluke, another mystery to be investigated, preying on his insecurities. Throwing a glance in Baby's direction, to make sure he's still knee-deep in his own search, Emmet slips his fingers under the elastic and cautiously peels it off.

What he discovers is horrifying enough to make his blood curdle.

Lying on his side in Emmet's bed, with the sheets draped over his waist and the pale light of dawn streaked across his bare skin, Baby yawns into his fist, his curls bursting across the pillow in a brilliant sunrise. Emmet snaps his eyes shut, but the image is still there when he opens them again, more vivid than before. Quickly, he shuffles the photo to the end of the stack, but the one hidden beneath is much worse.

They're sitting on a park bench in the daytime, Baby in his dark blue sweater, and Emmet in Baby's jacket. His hand rests on Baby's knee, while Baby wraps an arm around his shoulder, both grinning as brightly as the sun that shines at their backs.

A sickening taste curls up on his tongue. He flips through the rest as fast as he can, but can't keep his eyes from picking up even the smallest of details:

The green and yellow stars that speckle Baby's tank top as they stand shoulder-to-shoulder in front of a bubbling fountain.

Snow falling on their heads outside the diner. White flakes on his jacket.

Emmet holding the camera above them with one hand while they lie half-awake in bed, trying to capture the perfect Polaroid selfie.

Blankets draped over the sofa. The way Baby laughs when he pokes him in the chest with his foot.

The smile that crosses his face when Baby arches up to kiss him under a cherry blossom tree. Lips touching, eyes closed. The two of them alone. Just him and Baby.

He gasps for breath.

"Hey? Emmet?" Baby's voice rolls in like a distant storm. "What's that?"

Light, color, memory all swirls together in front of Emmet's eyes, questions he can't answer, reasons he can't grasp. He opens his mouth, looks at Baby. "I...don't know."

The excuse isn't good enough to keep Baby from sliding closer. "Lemme see, then."

Emmet shakes his head. "I can't."

"C'mon, Emmet. If it's somethin' I might know—"

"You _won't."_

"Why not?"

"Because—" He feels the water in his eyes, the tickle in his nose, tries to fight them back but it's obvious that Baby can see his struggle. Just like he sees the photo of himself when he cranes his neck to find out what Emmet has been hiding.

"Is...is that me?" Eyes widening, he snatches the stack from Emmet's hands and begins to cycle through it, his face turning a shade paler with each image that passes, until Emmet swears he can see the bedroom door through it. "What—what is this? Why do you have all these pictures of us? Why are we—kissing, and—and—"

"I don't know," Emmet whispers.

Baby gives a choked-off laugh. "No—this—this ain't real. Tell me you're messin' with me, Emmet. Tell me I'm not losin' my mind."

"I...I can't—"

"Tell me, Emmet!" He shouts. "Tell me why I don't remember this!"

_"I don't know!"_

Emmet's helplessness ripples across the room, sharp and sudden, stunning Baby into silence. He sits and stares at Emmet with those big blue eyes, those gentle hands trembling in fear. Then, slowly, he parts his lips and breathes a single, soft plea: _"Why?"_

Blinking the tears away, Emmet bows his head and looks at his palms, attempts to picture something cupped inside—a message, a memory, another pair of hands. He closes and opens them again, but they remain as empty as before, just as Baby's eyes look when he lifts his gaze and sadly repeats the only phrase he can:

"I don't know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked it, please leave a comment or a hug. And you can always chat with me on [tumblr.](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com)  
> Until next time, LadyD.


	5. Beef Stew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a good Pride Month! As a thanks for being so wonderful, I'd like you all to have another chapter to round out your celebration. Here we learn more about Baby's past, and why Emmet does some of the things he does. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> *CW for brief mentions of child abuse and use of a homophobic slur*

"I've lost a year of my life."

The words exit Emmet's throat in a hollow declaration, spoken to—at—the blurry arrangement of shapes sitting on the opposite sofa. The figure belongs to Meagan, obviously; he'd known that long before his mind had jumped ship, and his vision decided to don a filthy pair of goggles and cannonball into the water along with it. 

 _I'm just tired_ , he tells himself. Not that it has anything to do with how he'd spent the remainder of his weekend staring at the ceiling of his bedroom until everything around him seemed to be covered in a milky-white film of paint. 

He blinks his eyes slowly, breathes a sigh of relief when the world ceases to look like the inside of a toilet bowl. 

And then, there's only Meagan, staring at him with more contempt than a toilet bowl ever could. "I'm not sure I follow. Could you try being clearer?"

"Oh." Emmet fumbles with the lightswitch to his brain. "I-I just meant—with the suspension and all."

"No...I don't think that's it," she drawls, frames glistening as her eyes narrow in on their target. "When you first came in you looked as if you'd been hit in the face with a brick. What happened since you last stormed out of my office?"

"Nothing," stresses Emmet. But _of course_ he'd choose that exact moment to glance at Baby's jacket draped over the armrest beside him. _Shit, there's no way she missed that._ "Really, I'm just tired. Long weekend, you know." No, Emmet doubts that she does. Unless there happened to be a psychological torture-film festival in town that he hadn't read about.

"So...nothing, then," Meagan echoes, readying her pen with an ominous click.

"I mean, I tripped up the steps at work last week, and almost lost my keys in the couch, but that's about it."

Meagan shoots him another dirty look, then dives in to attack the open notebook page.

"OK, fine," he relents, weary of having another mark placed on his record. "I dreamed about him again. The guy from last time."

"The one from the bar?" She asks. "Who you threw a fit over last time?"

 _A fit?_ Emmet grits his teeth. "For your information, his name is _Baby_ and he's kind of a nice guy who also smells _really_ good for some reason." _Tastes good, too_. But that one bout of verbal diarrhea is all Meagan is getting from him today.

"I see…" She tries to tap the smile from her lips with the butt of her pen but fails spectacularly. "And I suppose you know how good he smells from your dream?"

 _"No,"_ Emmet jeers, folding his arms across his chest as if the act alone might protect him. "I know because I invited him over to my apartment."

The pure joy with which Meagan greets his response makes Emmet wish he'd cut his tongue out and stomped on it until he was certain it could never betray him again. "My, Mr. Ellis, this is quite a surprise. Consider me impressed."

Emmet would rather consider her moving to a shack in the middle of Antarctica, but he'd settle for a trailer in Jersey if that meant getting her out of his hair. "Before you start jumping to conclusions, I only called him over to give him his jacket back." The one sitting next to him, sticking out like a bandaged limb.

"Still," she continues, "you've done a complete turn from the last time you were here. To go from tearing yourself apart over one dream—"

 _It's not_ —

"—to giving this man a chance—"

 _She doesn't need to know_ —

"—even though you admitted you dreamed of him again—"

"It wasn't just another dream," he blurts out. "It really happened."

"You mean because it _felt_ real?" Her brow arches smugly.

"No. Because it _was_ real. I have evidence—a-a photo."

Meagan tips her chin upwards, narrows her eyes again. "A photo of what?"

"From the dream, it's—" _Just me. Half-naked. No big deal._ "He—Baby—took a photo of me. And when I woke up, I found the same photo, exactly as it had looked in my head. I swear, I never saw it before in my li—"

"May I see it?"

 _What?_ "What? _No,_ it's—" _Embarrassing? The next best thing to watching a peep show?_ "It's obscene," he balks. "And it's not like I carry it around in my wallet." _In the off-chance my therapist asks for tasteful nudes._ Though he can't imagine a universe in which presenting something like that would result in anything short of a sexual harassment suit. 

"Well," she presses, because this is Meagan he's talking to, "could you describe it then?"

Emmet glares. "No."

"Alright." She scrawls a mark against him in her book, probably something along the lines of _"Subject refused to produce penis when prompted."_ Once finished, she looks up and adjusts her glasses, gives her strand of pearls a light tug before delivering her verdict. "From what it sounds like, you may have stumbled upon a repressed memory."

 _No shit?_ He could have told himself that from the comfort of his own couch. He could also tell himself to shut up, though that wouldn't be nearly as enjoyable as proving Meagan wrong. "That doesn't explain everything else, though."

"Then perhaps you should tell me what 'everything else' is."

Emmet clicks his tongue. "Sharp as ever, Meagan." _About as sharp as a tack in my ass._ "I knew there was a reason I kept coming here."

"You keep coming here because I continue to accept your insurance, Mr. Ellis." She flashes her teeth, like an animal gloating over its kill. "Now, I believe you were going to stop wasting your money and start being straight with me?" 

The request drips with such pungency, all it's missing is a bottle of arsenic for Emmet to wash away the aftertaste. "Alright, I showed it to him. I showed Baby the photo. I thought he might know more about it. But—" _But all it did was make things worse._ "But he couldn't remember it either. And then—then we—" He feels his heart beat faster, twists his fingers in his shirtsleeve. "We went through my old photos and found more of them. Pictures of us kissing, and—and holding hands, us in bed together, outside at the park. There were thirteen of them total. I know because I went through each about fifty times over. That's not just one repressed memory, Meagan. That's a whole fucking lot of them."

Meagan's expression warps into one of deepest intrigue. "So you're saying neither of you remember taking these photos?"

 _Do you want me to waste our time further by saying it again?_ "No. None of the photos looked familiar to us."

"And how did that make you feel?

 _Are you fucking kidding me?_ "I was in shock, obviously. It was like falling headfirst into some kind of secret life—" Suddenly, he jolts forward, grabbing a fistful of the armrest to anchor himself. "Do I—do you think I have split personalities? Oh god, what if I do? What if I've been going around fucking all these random guys and I can't remember any of it?"

"Calm down, Mr. Ellis." Meagan holds up her hand. "Let's take this one step at a time." Lost in thought, she taps the pen against her notebook but doesn't make so much as a scribble. "Your friend, how did he react to this...revelation?"

Emmet is too busy trying to steady his breathing to mull over the implications of Meagan referring to Baby as his "friend," although he supposes they were something of the sort once, if the dreams and the photos were to be believed. To speak nothing of how he'd caught himself debating whether he should ask Baby to stay for a second cup of coffee that night, before all of this had gone down. "He—" 

 _Stumbled out of the bedroom in a daze. Was in such a rush to leave, he barely stopped to tie his shoes._ Only once he'd gone had Emmet turned to see the jacket still folded over the back of his kitchen chair, another reminder of another awful mistake. "He left before we had the chance to discuss it. I think he was just as shocked." He can't pretend the sight of Baby's eyes—cycling from shy to joyous to terrified quicker than the phases of the moon—hadn't followed him throughout the weekend, making his chest ache with guilt even now. He should have said something, should have tried to comfort him in some way. But he'd been too absorbed in his own fears to be of any use.

His fingers find a stray thread hanging from one of the cushions and give it a tug. "At first I thought maybe we'd had a one-night stand, that we'd just been drunk and reckless. But the other photos—they were taken over months. From winter to spring, summer…" Trailing off, he twists the thread around his index finger until it begins to throb from the lack of circulation. "I didn't want to believe it; I'd spent so much time trying to convince myself that none of it was real. And now, I'm not even sure what that word means anymore." He pauses, lets the string unravel. "And that's everything else."

"I see," Meagan hums. "So that's why you think you're missing an entire year."

"I thought about it all of yesterday—" _While lying in bed, half numb and half crazy._ "—and I realized I can't remember anything in detail from finals two years ago up until the end of the previous school year." He snorts a laugh, gives his head a disgusted shake. "You know how you wake up each morning and head straight for the coffee maker without even thinking? Well, I went to bed on the way to the bar with Deedee and woke up heading for the same bar a year later. I never even noticed—" As the words sink in, his eyes widen. "Wait, we were at the bar. Do you—do you think I was drugged? That maybe someone slipped something in my drink and—and had their way with me? Something so strong I lost my memory for an entire year?"

Meagan looks up at the ceiling, pen tapping out her thought process. "Actually, I think it makes more sense to suggest you may have entered a fugue state."

Emmet furrows his brow. "What's that?"

"Well, it's a rare disorder characterized by long periods of amnesia, sometimes associated with a traumatic event. People who experience it often develop new identities to cope, go on trips, form new relationships. It might explain your time lapse."

"But—but I don't remember any sort of trauma."

"Traumas can build up over a span of time," she explains. "You may not have even noticed until something triggered you."

 _Oh. So that's where she's going with this._ "Look, I get it. So I was bullied a lot as a kid. But I highly doubt I would just up and lose my memory over that." As much as he wishes the opposite were true. At least for certain memories. "Plus, I showed Deedee some of the photos and she doesn't recognize them either. And I know she would have told me if I suddenly skipped town for a year to live my life as a traveling salesman or whatever." He's not even going to mention how the dreams had taken place in his apartment, on his bed, his couch. How Baby had referred to him by his full title, among other things. He frowns, in hopes of driving the heat from his cheeks. "Do your fugue states usually involve other people?"

Meagan points the pen at her lip, startling when she realizes it's the wrong end. "I mean—it would be almost unheard of, but anything is possible. I'd need to do a significant amount of research on it to make a more educated guess. In the meantime, keep asking around. And keep me abreast of any further dreams that you have. They may prove helpful in regaining your memories."

"Yeah, sure," Emmet mumbles down at the floor, though he has no intention of stopping his sleep aids. Baby had already been in his bed far too many times for him to stomach.

 

It takes an impressive amount of planning, 2 hours' of stalking, and several suspicious trips to the bathroom for Emmet to finally corner the "King of Sales" between calls. Though, if he'd been smart about it, he could have just saved himself the trouble and listened for the daily announcement of "Two more deals and drinks are on me, fellas!" Given that Tom had once ordered pizzas for the entire office and stuck Marketing with the bill, Emmet highly doubts that promise will ever come to fruition. But free beer is the last thing on his mind as he rushes through the aisles and over to Tom's cubicle. 

"Hey, Tom? Would it be alright if I asked you something?"

Swiveling around in his chair, Tom flashes a charismatic smile and double finger-guns a line straight to Emmet's crotch. "Sure thing, pal! Lemme guess: communication problems?"

"Um, not exactly." He shifts closer to the cubicle wall, eager to extricate his privates from Tom's awkwardly-aimed laser beam. "I was wondering if—"

"Listen, it's kind of like this," Tom says. "Picture the customer naked. Then, imagine yourself caressing their voice like you would a big, supple pair of—" 

"OK, that's—" _A good excuse to never eat again_ , Emmet's claim substantiated by the obscene hand gestures with which Tom has chosen to illustrate his tale of vocal seduction. "Actually, I wanted to ask a more personal question."

Emmet has barely finished his sentence when Tom's brows arch suggestively, not a good sign by any means. "Oh, dating tips, huh? Well, I'm a bit rusty in your department, but I have been known to charm the pants off more than a few men in my heyday."

 _In the name of all that is sane…_ Emmet tries not to grimace, instead focusing on the motivational poster pinned to the wall behind Tom's shoulder. God knows he could use some of that right now. Though it baffles him how the cat in the photo can manage to keep hanging onto that tree branch when less than five minutes in Tom's presence already has him itching to throw himself off a cliff. "It's about your eye," he hurriedly replies. "I was wondering if you could tell me if you ever got any—you know—PTSD from losing it?"

In response, Tom winks the good eye at him—at least Emmet thinks that's a wink. "You bet your ass I did! I got so many of those things they couldn't fit them all on my uniform."

"No, it's not—" With each sigh, Emmet finds that cliff growing more desirable. "It's not a pin or medal. It's a mental disorder caused by experiencing a traumatic event." He waits for the puzzled expression to leave Tom's face, but after thirty seconds realizes he lacks the patience. "Your eye. Did you ever have any nightmares or flashbacks after losing it? Anything troubling?"

Tom's left eye narrows instantly, his finger-gun morphing into a stern jab at Emmet's chest. "Let me tell you something, pal. Back when I was in the sand trenches of Abu Dhabi, fighting to keep my crewmates Big Johnny and Little Timmy safe from ISIS, we never let any crap like PSD get in the way of our mission. And when Timmy drove our Jeep over that landmine, and I lost good ol' righty here—"

"Oh for _fuck's_ sake," comes a voice on the opposite side of the wall. "You were never in any war. You kept your contacts in for three months straight. You're lucky the parasite didn't eat both eyes."

Tom sputters a nervous laugh. "Heh…I mean—it was—" Avoiding Emmet's gaze, he blindly reaches around the desk for his mug of coffee, knocking over a stapler and a smiley-faced stress ball before eventually catching hold of the handle. A quick sip is all it takes to reset his composure and, with a nauseating smack of his lips, he smiles up at Emmet once more. "So, pal, what else can I help you with?"

Thank god Emmet's phone vibrates just as Tom is working up another finger-gun; another second of this and he's afraid he might be tempted to staple his ears and eyes shut. "Sorry, I gotta take this before my break is over," he says, pulling the phone from his pocket and shaking it at Tom as proof. "I'll catch you later. Good luck with your contacts—contact." 

"They're antimicrobial!" Tom hollers after him, but Emmet is already halfway to the stairwell, and he sure as hell isn't turning back now.

Once he's inside, and the door is shut behind him, he answers the call. "Did you find anything?"

"Gee, Em, how about a 'Hello' for starters?"

"I already wasted half of my break enabling a man's midlife crisis," he snaps, leaning back against the concrete wall. "So just hurry up and tell me what you've got."

Deedee deflects his ire with an irritated huff. "I got nothing. Same as the last three times you told me to check."

"Well check again. He has to be there."

"He isn't. I went through all of my phone albums, scoured the past five years on Facebook, and all I found were cat memes and the few photos of us your picky ass will allow me to take."

His sigh bounces from one wall to another, the cheap lights overhead flickering in commiseration. "Are you absolutely sure?"

"Emmet, I swear to you," she says, "I can't find anyone who looks remotely like the guy you showed me. You know how many phones I've broken since we met? And it's not like I post a lot of photos on social media—not even my selfies. Oh, except for that one I took at the gynecologist's office. Hashtag PAP 4 LYFE, or whatever the kids are saying these days."

"Dee—"

"Y'know, I was in the hall the other day and I heard one girl tell another that the french fries in the cafeteria were 'on fleek.' I didn't know if I should call the cops or try to freebase."

"I swear to—" He crouches down, taps the concrete with the back of his head a few times to try to knock the frustration from it. "Why can't you just act like a normal human being sometimes?"

The line goes silent, and just as Emmet pulls the phone back to check if the call has dropped, Deedee blows out his eardrum with, "WELL EXCUSE ME, but you have some nerve to talk. You bail on our lunch date yesterday. You don't answer your phone. I show up at your place only to find you lying in bed like a vegetable with a bunch of Polaroids next to you. Fuck, Em, I was afraid you were dead."

"I—shit—" Fingers digging into his forehead, Emmet closes his eyes but there's nothing he can do to escape the nightmare that flares up behind them: Deedee's face awash in terror, her hands clutching his shoulders, shaking him with all her might as she pleads " _EMMET, WAKE UP"._ "I'm sorry, Dee. The last thing I wanted to do was upset you. I'm just really stressed over this. I mean, how is it we both—no, all three of us can't remember?"

"Did you ever stop to think that maybe you dated him before we met?" Deedee asks, her voice somewhat calmer. 

Emmet sighs and rubs the soreness from the back of his head. "I was five years younger then. My hair was different. I was clean-shaven. There's no way—these photos had to have been taken recently. And since you're one of the few people I'll let handle my camera—" Just then, he remembers what he'd told Meagan at the start of their session. "Dee, we already know we don't remember my thirty-third birthday party, but do you remember anything from the year before that?"

"What? Of course I remember," she scoffs. "We went to that teachers' conference in August. It was hot as balls out."

"But we go to one almost every year. We sit in the back and make fun of people's hair."

"Then I'm not sure what to tell you, Em. I never met the guy, and I definitely didn't take any of your photos. But I'll keep checking if it'll make you feel better."

He sighs again. "Thanks, Dee. I should probably get back to work now." 

"I'll stop by on Wednesday, OK? Just try to take it easy until then."

"Promise. See you later." And he hangs up the phone. Climbing to his feet, he slips it into his pocket, brushes the dust bunnies from the seat of his pants before walking over to the door.

The phone vibrates once, and then stops. Thinking Deedee had just forgotten to tell him something, Emmet quickly pulls it out again, his pulse spiking when he sees that the message isn't from Deedee at all.

It's from Baby. 

 **B:** _hey_

Short and simple. Emmet replies in the same fashion, too anxious to say much else.

 **E:** _Hey._

A moment passes, and then Baby writes back.

 **B:** _I want to talk  
_ **B:** _About the other night_

The message burns into his mind, sends his stupid fingers fumbling at the keyboard to change the subject.

 **E:** _You forgot your jacket at my place._

Baby replies:

 **B:** _It's fine. You can keep it_

As he examines the response, Emmet hears his voice in his head, thick with tears, swollen with sorrow. He tries to think of something to say, but finds himself as wordless as when he'd watched him walk away that night. 

He's still staring listlessly at his thumbs when another message pops up.

 **B:** _Do you wanna grab a bite to eat? And we can talk?_

Emmet doesn't, and he does. He wants to forget, to remember. Wants to draw a line between his emotions and the part of his intellect that yearns to discover the truth. If he could, maybe the message he sends next wouldn't be so hard to swallow.

 **E:** _Why don't you come to my place instead? I can cook for us._

The reply comes in an instant.

 **B:** _sure  
_ **B:** _what time?_

_How about whenever I figure out what the fuck possessed me to make such a stupid suggestion?_

**E:** _How about 6:30 on Saturday?  
_ **B:** _ok see you later then_

 _See you later then,_ Emmet thinks as he puts the phone away. Because thinking of anything else only serves to make his insides churn.

 _It's fine; this shouldn't be a problem._ All he has to do is come up with something to cook, go shopping, clean the apartment, and make it through the work week without losing his wits over the thought of breaking bread with a man with whom he'd once shared a secret relationship. _Yep, no problem at all._

The groan the door emits when he yanks it open echoes his sentiments perfectly.

 

 

"Well, sure I'm nervous. I spent half the morning tossing and turning until I eventually got out of bed and went straight to cooking stew. It's been on the stove for almost eight hours; the meat is probably going to disintegrate the second he takes a bite." Phone in one hand, Emmet stirs the contents of the stock pot, watching chunks of steak, carrot and potato bob like buoys in the thick brown sauce. "Speaking of which, do you think he'll like it? I used my mom's recipe but I think I may have gone a little heavy on the cumin. Or—shit—you don't think he's a vegetarian, do you?"

"Are you kidding?" Deedee chuckles. "Big guy like that probably eats an entire moose for breakfast."

"Still…" He tastes it for what has to be the hundredth time, resists the urge to reach for the jar of paprika. "I don't know, maybe I should have played it safe and made puttanesca or a veggie stir fry instead?"

"I'm sure it'll be fine, Em. I don't know anyone who wouldn't want to eat your cooking. Hell, I'm kinda jealous. You never cook for me."

"What? I used to cook for you all the time," he says, putting the spices away so he's not tempted further. "Remember when I made you paella right after you broke up with that guy Joey? You cried into it because you said one of the shrimps reminded you of him."

"Oh, I remember. I just wanted to see if _you_ did."

Emmet grumbles, "Thanks, Dee. I can always count on you to kick me when I'm down."

"Listen," Deedee starts in a soothing tone, "I want you to get your memories back as much as you do. But are you sure you're going about this the right way?"

Of course not. Emmet wouldn't be sure he's wearing clothes right now if he didn't keep feeling for them beneath the apron Deedee had given him for Christmas four years ago—count that as another point on his "Memory Game" scorecard. "I'm only doing this because I don't want to be out in public in case things go south." South being the possibility that he might make a grown man cry a second time. "Baby said we needed to talk, and he's probably right. I just feel more comfortable doing it here."

A sharp knock at the door makes him jump. 

"That's probably him now. Hey, I'll talk to you later, OK? Good luck at your gymnastics meet."

"Ha! We don't need luck," she laughs. "But no really, we kind of do. The other schools are ridiculously good."

"Well, good luck then. I'll see you when you get back."

"Hey, Em?"

Emmet pauses. "Yeah?"

"You gonna be alright with this?"

"I'll be fine," he replies, the lie more for his own benefit than Deedee's. "Don't worry about me." 

Another knock, softer now.

"Gotta run. Bye, Dee." He leaves the phone on the kitchen counter and jogs to the door, fingers curling around the knob just as he realizes he's still wearing the apron Deedee had gifted him, emblazoned with the effervescent phrase, "WILL COOK FOR SEX." Quickly stripping it off, he balls it up and chucks it into a corner. God forbid he should give the wrong impression.

Baby, however, is a completely different story. First—no, second impressions aside, Emmet is convinced he'd known exactly what he was doing when he decided to show up in those clean-pressed khakis and that pale green-and-blue striped sweater, smelling like a goddamn ginger-snap. He fiddles with the hem a little before stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Hey, um, it's nice t'see ya again."

The feeling isn't mutual, but out of politeness, Emmet replies, "Yeah, same. Uh...come on in." As he shuts the door behind him, he can't resist stepping closer to catch a covert whiff of Baby's cologne, the spicy scent every bit as intoxicating as before. Maybe if he asks nicely, Baby will tell him what brand it is; maybe if he asks even _nicer,_ he'll agree never to wear it in his presence again. That is, if they ever meet again.

"Wow, somethin' smells real good in here," Baby remarks, moving to strip off his boots. 

It takes Emmet a minute to realize he's not talking about himself. "Oh. I made beef stew, if that's alright."

In an impressive display of balance, Baby manages to look up mid-shoe removal with hardly a wobble, leading Emmet to believe he'd been practicing. "Yeah, that sounds great, actually. But ya don't gotta worry about me. I'll pretty much eat anythin'."

"Well, come on over when you're done. I don't have a table, but you can pull up a chair at the counter." It's a stupid thing to say; of course Baby knows he doesn't have a table. He's been in his apartment before, possibly more times than Emmet has yet to remember—one more thought to push away as he steps up to the stove and ladles out two hearty portions of stew into a pair of bowls. 

By the time his shaking hands grab the spoons, and he gathers the courage to face him again, Baby is already seated at the counter, waiting patiently with a soft glimmer in his eyes. "Can I help?"

"No, just—" _Sit tight? Make yourself comfortable?_ "—enjoy the food," he says, and places both bowls on the counter. "It's still hot, so be careful not to burn your tongue." He begins to pull his chair out but thinks twice, vaguely remembers how to be a proper host. "Can I get you something to drink? I don't have any beer in the fridge, but I have water, soda and orange juice, or I can make coffee."

Baby stops blowing on his spoonful of stew and gives Emmet a timid look. "You got anythin' stronger?"

 _Right_. They could probably both use a stiff drink at the moment. And now that alcohol has been absolved of this mess, Emmet has little to worry about. "Let me check." He opens the cabinet where Deedee keeps her private stash and recites the inventory: "I've got Froot Loop-flavored vodka, a bit of rum, some whiskey—oh, and the merlot left over from the stew."

"Whiskey is good," Baby says. "Just a little."

"Sure. I think I have some ginger ale in the fridge, to mix it."

"That's OK, I'll just drink it straight."

At Baby's request, Emmet plucks a pair of glasses from the cabinet and pours two fingers of whiskey in each, though he tops his off with a bit of ginger ale. When he returns with their drinks, he sees Baby has already started to dig in.

"Oh man, this is so good," he mumbles around a mouthful of food. 

Settling into his chair, Emmet takes his spoon and scoops up a small bite for himself. "It's not bad, I guess. Maybe a little too much cumin."

 _"No way,"_ Baby gushes, Emmet flinching in anticipation of ending up with a face full of partially-chewed meat. "I mean, it kicks the crap outta anythin' I ever had. And I mostly eat Hot Pockets an' TV dinners."

 _He cannot be serious._ Emmet does his best to iron out the look of disgust on his face. "I'm glad I cooked then. Those things'll kill you."

"Well, I work out just about every day, so I guess it's not so bad." Grinning, he dives in for more. "Who knows? Maybe I'll live forever."

_Or maybe you'll have diabetes by the age of thirty. If the sugar doesn't get the job done first._

Wait, how old _is_ Baby? Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine? No, he can't be more than mid-twenties, not with those smooth cheeks and glowing skin, the way he's gobbling up his stew like a kid who's just hit a growth spurt. Mesmerized, Emmet watches him eat, awkwardly reaching for his glass only after Baby raises his head again. 

"It's _really_ good," Baby repeats, wiping the sauce from his lips with his napkin. "Thanks for makin' it for me."

"Oh...um…" Fuck, they've been sitting there for what, ten minutes now? And all this time Baby has been showering him in compliments without receiving so much as a hint of gratitude in return. As if Emmet had needed further reason to feel like an asshole. "Thanks. I'm glad you like it."

"You cook a lot?"

He takes a sip from his whiskey, so it doesn't appear as though he'd only picked up the glass to distract from his gawking. "I used to, but not so much anymore. These days I mostly get takeout." Hearing it aloud rings even more bells on his Asshole Alarm, so he silences it with a feeble apology. "Sorry I got on your case earlier. I guess that's just as bad as eating Hot Pockets all the time." Embarrassed, he goes in for another sip, but a curious tickle in his throat stops him. "Um...why do you ask?"

"I was jus' interested is all. I was thinkin' how good ya are at it, you could be a chef or somethin'. If yer not one already." The look that Emmet gives him must speak volumes, because Baby's smile wilts and his voice softens suddenly, eyes filling with that same remorse Emmet had seen one time too many. "Sorry. I didn't mean t'upset ya. I promise I won't ask again."

 _Good, please don't._ But there's nothing Emmet can do to keep himself from feeling terrible for thinking it. "No, it's alright. I'm—" _A failure. A complete disgrace._ "I work in customer service. For a cable company." 

The response is deliberately simple, but it manages to cheer Baby up some. "Oh yeah? That sounds kinda interestin'."

"Sure, if you like dealing with sanctimonious jerks who are convinced that everything they say is right," he spits, uninterested in hiding his bitterness. "Well I must be doing a good job of it, because they decided to extend my contract by another six months. Either that or they just enjoy prolonging my torture."

 "Oh. That's—" Baby pauses. "Sorry, I can see why ya don't like to talk about it."

"It's fine, you don't have to apologize." Though part of Emmet wants him to—that spiteful side he reserves for dealing with Meagan. He doesn't feel hungry anymore, but he chokes down another mouthful of stew regardless. When he looks up again, he sees Baby watching him over the rim of his glass, his gaze full of hope and regret. And he knows he has to do something about it. "So...what do you do for a living?"

"Construction," Baby says. "Demo mostly."

So, he wasn't entirely off when he and Deedee had played their guessing game. "You like it?"

Baby's face lights up. "Yeah, it's great. All the guys I work with are good people. And my boss is cool. He gave me the job when I first got here, an' when I moved back this year, he let me have it again." Lowering his gaze, he stirs the food in his bowl, the room falling into such a hush Emmet can hear the unnerving scrape of metal on ceramic. "Can I ask ya a kinda personal question?"

 _Shit. Shit. Shit._ Just when things were starting to get manageable _._ "Um, yeah," Emmet replies, setting his spoon down lest he should swallow it as soon as Baby begins speaking. "Shoot."

"What's yer favorite thing to cook?"

 _Huh._ That's odd. He can't remember the last time someone—other than Deedee's annual birthday boyfriends—had asked him that question. Or what his favorite color is, or his favorite book, or favorite genre of music. He feels like a student fumbling to answer a pop quiz. "I guess...pasta, maybe? You can do a lot with it."

Baby grins, big and bright. "I love cookin' spaghetti. It's one of the only things I know, 'side from chicken and burritos. 'Course, I couldn't tell ya for the life a'me where I learned how." No sooner has he said it than his rosy cheeks grow dim, and he briefly glances at his bowl again before asking, "Where'd ya learn how to cook?"

Somehow Emmet doubts that had been his original question, but it's an easy one to answer, and for the time being, easy is what he prefers. "My mom taught me when I was growing up. She was more than happy to pass on her skils; she didn't care if it was to a son or daughter." The fond memory of summers spent standing at the stove with his mother beside him makes Emmet smile, and he says a thanks to Baby in his head for bringing it up. "This is her recipe, by the way. I have it memorized by heart, but I'm a bit rusty so I gave her a call anyway. She—" _asked me if I was making it for someone special_ "—was happy to hear from me. I guess I don't talk to her as much as I used to."

"You should," Baby tells him. "Call her ev'ryday if ya can and tell her thanks. For me." 

 _Well, good to see things are getting weird again._ Though between the two of them, it seems they've developed quite a knack for it. "Um...sure...I'll call her up first thing tomorrow," he says, chasing his snark with a spoonful of lukewarm stew and a long sip from his drink. "What about your family, then?" _Do you call_ them _everyday?_ "Do you have anyone close by?"

"Oh, no. They're all back in Georgia. I don't have any brothers or sisters, or any cousins I'm close with, but I do go to see Ma once in a while." He chuckles softly, its echo vibrating throughout the kitchen. "My ma's nothin' like yours though. I can't remember her ever cookin' nothin' that didn't come outta a can or box. But we used to get fried chicken on the holidays. Me an' Gramps would 'Rock-Paper-Scissors' for the last drumstick."

 _Wow._ "That's kind of—" _Trashy? Depressing?_ "—sad, actually." When he realizes what he's said, Emmet wishes he'd been fortunate enough to choke on a potato first. "Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that." 

The warm smile that dimples Baby's cheeks only makes his guilt that much worse. "Nah, it's alright. I know it don't sound so great, but ya gotta count yer blessin's I guess. How 'bout you? What were the holidays like when you were little?"

 _A hell of a lot better than yours._ But this time Emmet manages to keep the thought to himself. "Well, it was usually just the three of us, plus Aunt Maisie and Uncle Chaz. Aunt Shondra would come sometimes, whenever she was single." Another happy memory pops into his head, and he laughs despite his apprehension. "Mom would always have to keep her and Dad separated. She got on his nerves so much they couldn't spend more than ten minutes without sniping at each other. One year Mom even threatened to take the knives away 'just in case'." 

"Yeah?" The grin on Baby's face is contagious. "Sounds a lot like my Uncle Eddie an' Uncle Jack. Pa used to break 'em up all the time. Hey, you goin' back for Thanksgiving this year?"

"Yeah, my parents still live in the same house where I grew up, about three hours upstate," Emmet explains. "I usually rent a car and spend the night. Thank god they got a bigger bed in my old room. It was bad enough having to squeeze into a twin when I went to college."

 _"Please_ tell me yer cookin' somethin'," Baby practically moans in excitement. 

"If I showed up without at least two casserole dishes full of yams, I don't think my dad would ever forgive me." 

By now, they're both smiling so hard Emmet completely forgets how strange it had felt when Baby had first started asking him questions. He picks up his spoon, takes a big bite, continues: "Mom is pre-diabetic, so I try not to dump a whole bag of brown sugar in there like she normally would. She's kind of like you; she likes sweet things."

"She sounds real nice. Wish I could meet her."

 _Maybe you already have._ He forces himself to hold his smile, despite the bad taste the thought leaves in his mouth. "I think if you were to meet her, she'd probably hug you so hard the second you walked in the door, you'd think she was trying to break you in half." _Because you were someone special. Because you were family._ "Because that's just how she is."

"That's fine with me," Baby says. "I like hugs."

 _I kind of figured you would_. Not at first, though. Not until he'd seen the photos, how happy Baby had looked to have his arm around him. But it isn't as if he's willing to confirm that, not with himself, and certainly not with his mother. Steering the topic away from his family, he asks, "Are you planning to head back home for the holidays? Maybe pick up some fried chicken on the way?"

Baby's bright smile flickers to little more than a shadow. "Nah. I can't." 

"Yeah, I guess flights are kind of expensive this time of year. And it's one hell of a drive. What about Christmas though?"

"I'm...not sure yet." His eyes graze the countertop for a moment before returning to Emmet's face, their blue overcast with tones of gray. "Is it OK if I have some more stew?"

"Oh. Of course." Taking the bowl from Baby's hands, Emmet goes to the stove to refill it. "I guess it's hard finding the time to travel, huh?" He continues as he doles out another portion. "Especially when your family lives so far away."

The air grows silent. "...Yeah."

"What kind of work do you parents do?"

"They're in—car—they're in jail."

All at once, Emmet becomes acutely aware of the ceramic burning his fingertips. Dropping the ladle into the pot, he hurries to set the bowl back in front of Baby, rubs his hands on his jeans to brush off the pain. "I—I'm sorry," he says, because he doesn't know what, exactly, one should say in this situation. And if there are any "Deepest condolences over your family's conviction" cards in existence, well, it wasn't as if he'd ever needed to purchase one. "That...must be hard on you."

"I guess." He says it without looking at Emmet, attention focused on his bowl, stirring the contents idly. "I haven't seen Pa in years. And when I do go to visit Ma, I get the feelin' she doesn't really want me around."

With a frown, Emmet slips into his chair. "Why would you think that?"

"'Cause…" Baby trembles. "'Cause I'm the reason they're in there."

"Oh, Baby, no—" Emmet grabs his spoon to stop himself from doing something he'll regret. Something like trying to take Baby's hand in a bid to comfort him. "Don't say that. I'm sure it's not true."

"It is," Baby replies, blinking as though to hold back tears. "And that's not—they weren't the only ones who got put away."

Any remaining shred of Emmet's appetite goes careening out the window. "You mean...you were…"

Inch by inch, Baby lifts his gaze, his eyes glassy yet resolute. "I got wrapped up in some real bad shit when I was younger."

 _That's fine. This is fine._ He'd only had an extended relationship with a potential arsonist or bank robber or— _Jesus fuck_ —a _murderer_. Currently sitting on the opposite side of his counter, eating his stew. He throws a cautious glance over his shoulder, hopes Baby can't see the block of knives on the counter by the kitchen sink. "H-How young?"

"I dropped outta school when I was seventeen," Baby explains. "I was a OK kid I guess. Not too smart, but not real dumb either. Did my best not to start fights, only skipped a couple classes 'cause the guys on the team wanted to." He stops, smiles at the memory as Emmet had done. "I liked playin' football. Thought I might even be good enough to get a scholarship. But Ma and Pa always told me I'd never amount to nothin'. That I was jus' wastin' my time. Said I could be more useful if I helped 'em out with other stuff." His eyes wander once more. _"Bad_ stuff."

Emmet tries to swallow his words but they find their way out regardless. "Wh-What kind of bad stuff?"

"They liked t'drink a lot, couldn't keep a job. Pa, mostly. I knew they were robbin' folks, they'd been doin' it since before Gramps died. Got caught a couple times, but it was only for maybe a hundred bucks or a TV or handle a'bourbon, so they didn't stay in too long. When I got older an' stronger, they wanted to take me out with 'em. And that's when we started breakin' into houses." He flashes Emmet a pleading look. "It was all their ideas. I never wanted to, but—"

"It's OK," Emmet says, and this time he nearly follows through, catching himself just as he lifts his hand to reach for Baby's. It's nothing to be concerned about; he'd only wanted to do something—anything—to keep Baby's excuses at bay. He doesn't think he can stomach listening to them much longer. "You don't have to talk about it if it hurts too much." 

"No, I—" Baby sniffles, wipes at his eyes. "I fucked up. I never shoulda done any of it, but the way Pa looked at me after our first job, it was like he was proud a'me for once. So I kept doin' it, and ev'ry time they told me to 'timidate someone or beat someone up, I'd pretend maybe I was doin' somethin' good. Because I thought they loved me for it. But they were the villains, Emmet. And I guess that makes me just as bad."

 _There's no excuse. He can't expect me to feel sorry—_  

But Emmet does. The more he listens to Baby's story _—_ the longer he sits there and watches him try to sweep the tears from his eyes, it etches yet another scar across his heart, kicks his emotions into overdrive, has his walls crumbling under the pressure. "What happened next? How did you get caught?"

"It was me. I was s'posed to go black out the security cameras in this guy's house, but it was huge as a mansion, an' I guess I missed one. It wouldn't of been a big deal. We were wearin' masks. But then the guy came home an' found us. I roughed him up a bit, Ma tied him up. But Pa, he wanted to shoot 'im. I told him no, we got in a fight, and I ended up rippin' his mask off by accident. By then, we could hear the cops comin', so we had to get out. They picked us up the next day. Guy ID'ed Pa, and they got the rest of us on tape."

"H-How were—" Emmet stumbles, pulls himself up again. "How old were you?"

"Nineteen. Almost twenty."

"And how old are you now?"

"Just turned thirty-one end of April."

"Shit." His teeth catch his bottom lip, give it a sharp bite as if trying to gnaw off his curiosity. "How long were you in for?"

"Four-and-a-half. They said it was s'posed to be a lot more, 'cause I beat someone up durin' a robbery. But I was younger and it was my first time, and they—they had me—" A small tear escapes the corner of his eye, too quick for him to catch it. "They wanted me to rat out my folks. Said they were gonna turn on me, anyway. I didn't believe 'em at first, but then they showed me this video—it was Ma an' Pa tellin' the cops I did everythin'. They said they didn't even know me, that I was just some guy who forced 'em to rob someone because I threatened to clobber 'em if they didn't."

 _They sold out their own son?_ Emmet clenches his jaw so hard he feels it might break, nods quietly for Baby to continue.

"So I did it. I told the cops everythin'. About the job, about how Ma and Pa treated me when I was a kid, how I went along with it 'cause they were kin and I didn't wanna upset 'em. It made me feel awful inside. I didn't wanna believe any of it was true, but it was." The tear trickles all the way to his chin before Baby finally wipes it away. "In the end I got five years, but I was out early. I behaved myself, didn't get in fights even when people tried to start 'em. Spent a lotta time workin' out or readin' books. It's funny but I think—maybe—goin' to jail made me a better person. Yeah, I was scared at first, and lonely. I missed Ma and Pa, an' my friends. But I came out stronger than I was." He shakes his head and laughs, its soft sound radiating a wistful warmth. "Sorry for talkin' so much. Our stew's prob'ly cold by n—"

"How can you live with it?"

Baby's lips part in confusion. "S-Sorry?"

"Your life," Emmet says, each breath a hiss of tempered anger. "How can you live your life as if all the shit that happened to you was no big deal? How can you just sit and smile and not want to burn the world down out of spite? If it were me—"

"But it's not," Baby answers gently. "We're not the same, Emmet. We never will be. But maybe that's not such a bad thing." His hands lie face-up on the counter, and for a split second Emmet wonders how it might feel to slip his fingers inside, touching their palms together. 

"I'm sorry. It wasn't my business to—"

"Y'know, when I was a kid I used to cry a whole lot. Over all sorts a'things."

Curious, Emmet looks up. "Like what?"

"Like when I scraped my knee runnin' at the playground. Or when I couldn't find my stuffed bear before bedtime. Whenever Ma and Pa used to yell at each other. 'Cry-Baby' is what they'd call me. They'd hit me to try and get me to learn, but I just kept on cryin' an' cryin'." He pauses, his voice growing a touch softer. "Then one day, when I got older, I figured it didn't make a difference whether I cried or not. 'Cause either way, it was gonna hurt all the same. So now, I just do what feels right for me. I don't let nobody push me around anymore."

Had the two of them left things at the bar that night, had Emmet never spoken with him or invited him into his home, shared coffee and laughter, he might be inclined to believe that anyone who so much as thought of taking advantage of Baby would be in for the terror of their lives. But he can see now how easy it must have been, with a heart as big as his. "I understand. I—" _won't make you cry again "_ —won't judge you for it."

"It's alright, you don't gotta worry," Baby tells him. "'Sides, if I hadn't been so happy to start over after I got out, I never woulda met ya." His eyes seem to sparkle again, and he cheerfully asks, "How'd ya think we met anyway?"

Emmet shrugs. "Probably at the bar. Ever been to Emily's?"

"I dunno. Maybe?" 

"Well, my friend Deedee always liked to go there after the school year was over."

Baby beams excitedly. "You're in school?" 

"No, I'm not—I—" Emmet rubs his fingers against his palms, feels them slide through a film of sweat, a burning urge to run, to hide, to lie his way to safety as he always does.

Only tonight, he makes a different choice altogether.

"I...used to teach. High school Chemistry. I was there for almost six years." The expression on Baby's face seems to hold back another painful question, so Emmet offers the answer without prompting. "I was suspended earlier this year. There was...an incident."

Baby's big brow bunches at the center. "You alright? You didn't get hurt or nothin'?" 

"No," he sighs. "I was the one who caused it. Things were thrown, security called. Some of the students got it on Snapchat."

"What's that?

"It's bad." Emmet glances down, tightens his fists just to feel the sting of his nails. "I was overqualified for the job, anyway; I've got a PhD in Organic Chemistry. My plan was to teach at a University, but I guess—" _I wasn't good enough_ "—I wasn't good enough."

 "Are you kiddn'?" Baby says. "You're the smartest guy I know."

"Well then you obviously don't know many people," he sneers, before immediately regretting it. "I—I'm sorry about that. My therapist says I turn into an asshole when I grow too comfortable around people." Not her words, exactly, but in Emmet's mind they might as well be.

"That's good you're seein' a therapist, though," Baby comments. "I went to a therapy group when I was in prison an' it really helped me work out my issues with my folks. And...the fact that I liked guys, too." Shyly, he asks, "How old were ya when ya knew—"

"I thought you wanted to talk about the photos. That's why we're here, right?" Call him an asshole, but Emmet is not about to detail every instance in which he'd been branded a fag by his classmates before he realized that he actually was one.

"Um...y-yeah," Baby stammers. "Sure."

"Well, I'm sorry but I'm just as in the dark as you are. The only thing I can tell from them is that we appeared to have some sort of relationship."

"We were a _couple,"_ corrects Baby, disappointment tugging at the corners of his mouth. "For a long time. And for some reason we can't remember."

The word _couple_ makes Emmet shudder. They were together. They had sex. They seemed to enjoy each other's company. But calling them a couple just felt too...intimate. "Unfortunately, I can't help with that either. Even if I could, that entire year seems fuzzy. I honestly don't know if I remember any of it at all."

"Me neither. And I thought about it. A lot. I went lookin' through my stuff, an' found some things, like a t-shirt with stars that I can't remember buyin'."

"That's—" _just like when I found the jacket._ "I guess I hadn't thought to check the rest of my clothes."

"Ya wanna look now?" Baby asks, jerking his thumb in the direction of the hallway. "I can help—"

 _"No—_ I-I'll do it later." The last thing he wants is Baby's paws all over his shirts or _—_ even worse _—_ his underwear. He shakes off his disgust. "Still, finding a few items of clothing isn't exactly an omen." Mysterious jackets notwithstanding. "It doesn't prove we bought them for each other."

"But, if ya gave me a present, I'd definitely remember it. I know I wouldn't of just forgot somethin' so _—_ " He halts all of a sudden, appears to think. "Wait...did we forget because we were in an accident? I read this book once, called _Doctor, Darling,_ about a woman named Lisa who was engaged to a handsome surgeon, Ryan—"

"No, Baby—"

"—until one day she falls down an elevator shaft an' gets amnesia—"

"Jesus Christ." Emmet rubs his temples. 

"—and when she wakes up, she goes to nursin' school and ends up workin' at the same hospital as—"

 _For fuck's sake. "Baby._ Just—stop. This isn't a romance novel." At least not one Emmet has agreed to be in. "We weren't fated to meet again." He catches the distressed look in Baby's eyes, does his best to ignore it. "Besides, if the two of us had been in an accident, then why wouldn't Deedee remember?"

"Maybe we were all in the same car?" Baby counters.

"But we don't have any injuries or scars. Unless…" Shit, he hopes this isn't too personal a question. "Do you have any scars anywhere on your body? Ones you didn't get from prison, maybe?" Wasn't that something that happened on the inside? Getting shanked or shivved or whatever it was called?

Shaking his head, Baby replies, "No, I got nothin'. Not even any tattoos. I'm terrified a'needles."

 _Of course he is, stupid. But you already knew that._ He thinks harder, tries to give him an answer he'll understand. "My therapist thinks it might be something called a 'fugue state'. But she says it's rare to happen to multiple people at once. It would require some form of trauma, and since we've established that we haven't been in a physical accident—"

"What if it was _aliens?"_ Baby whispers in awe.

 _Seriously?_ "Look, while it would be fascinating to have definitive proof of extraterrestrial life, I highly doubt that's what happened."

"Y-Yeah, yer prob'ly right," he says with a meek chuckle. "That's why you're the smart one, and I'm just the idiot who lost his cool an' made a huge mistake in a bar." He stares down, fiddles with his fingers. "I'm sorry. I swear, if we met any other time, it'd be different."

Emmet doesn't need to imagine his promise to believe it; he'd seen enough of Baby's character to know that he's telling the truth. And he'd seen enough of himself over the past few weeks to realize that what he'd been doing—stealing the photo, inviting him over under false pretenses, taking advantage of his kindness—was no better than what his parents had done.

The only difference between them is that Emmet has the decency to own up to it.

"I'm sorry, Baby, but I haven't been completely honest with you."

Baby stops his fidgeting and looks up. "A-About what?"

"The weekend before we met, I saw you waiting at a bus stop in North Liberties and took a photo of you without your knowledge. I didn't tell you because I was ashamed of myself. And because I thought—" _you might hurt me_ "—you might get angry."

"Oh. I guess that's OK," he replies calmly. "Do ya do it a lot? Take pics of strangers?"

"No, only acquaintances. And I always ask permission first." He forces a laugh, but it only seems to add to his embarrassment. "At least the scenery never gives me weird looks."

"You do have tons of 'em," Baby points out. "You should hang some up. I only seen a bunch, but they're all pretty nice."

"Oh, I don't take them to show off."

Baby's brow twitches. "Then why take 'em at all?"

"Well, it's _—_ " His gaze drifts from Baby's face to their smudged glasses and half-eaten bowls of stew, an answer sought in the wreckage of the evening. "It's...complicated."

"I get it," Baby concedes. "I'm sorry I keep messin' up and makin' ya talk about this stuff." 

"No, Baby, it's not—" _It's not your fault,_ he wants to say. The only one messing up that night had been him. By sharing, by feeling, by wanting to travel back in time and comfort Baby when he'd needed it the most. Looking at him now, with his tear-stained cheeks, and his head bowed in guilt, all Emmet can see is the boy from his stories, huddled in a corner while his parents scream and shout. And if he stares hard enough, he can picture himself reaching for him in the present, without needing to move a muscle.

He thinks he knows what to do.

"I was always a nervous kid," he starts, voice cracking like a stone under pressure. "I used to get bullied a lot, for being too smart, for wearing glasses, for having perfect attendance, all the other stupid tactics kids like to employ to shame and humiliate their peers. I kept to myself, only talked to people when it was absolutely necessary. If I was out in public or at a school function, and there were too many strangers around, I would freeze up or have to run to the bathroom so no one could see me hyperventilating." 

He can feel that familiar tightness gripping his chest, banishes it by gazing into Baby's eyes. "One day, when I was eleven or twelve, I went down into the cellar to look for supplies for a science project, and I came across my dad's old Polaroid camera. He wasn't using it anymore, so he told me I could have it. From then on, I took it with me everywhere, and whenever I felt afraid or anxious, I would snap a photo. It didn't have to be anything big or meaningful, maybe just a flower or a brick wall. But I felt that, wherever I was, whatever situation I was in, as long as I could hold a part of it in my hand, it would become mine. And then it could never hurt me again."

"Is that why you took those photos of us?" Baby asks, another storm of tears on the horizon.

"No. It's not like that at all," Emmet rushes to explain. "It's true I started taking photos to help with my anxiety, but after a while I started taking them for fun too. Those ones I keep in an album instead of storing them in boxes."

He watches Baby's pale lashes flutter, damp and shimmering. "Then...why weren't ours with the fun ones?"

"I'm sorry," he breathes. "I wish I could tell you."

"It's alright," Baby says, though his sad eyes beg to differ. "I'm sure you had a good reason." 

Reason or not, Emmet doubts he'll be able to sleep tonight knowing his good intentions had only succeeded in making Baby cry again. He puts on a brave face, flashes him a hazy smile. "You know, I've never told anyone about my secret photos before."

"Really?" Sniffles Baby, wiping a tear away with his knuckles. 

"Yeah, not even Deedee knows. And the very first photo I took of her is in one of those boxes."

Reluctantly, Baby's lips begin to twitch at the corners, fighting to regain their cheerful demeanor. "Th-thanks," he says. "I—I don't usually feel comf'terble tellin' people 'bout my folks, either. But I wanted to 'cause I really like ya, Emmet. And I don't wanna keep anythin' from ya. So—"

"The photo wasn't the only thing I wanted to tell you about," Emmet interjects, before he loses the nerve entirely. "I've...been having dreams about us. Well, I thought they were dreams at first, but now I'm positive they're memories."

"You mean you're startin' to remember us?" The question bursts out in such a rush of excitement, Emmet is afraid Baby might spring from his chair and end up face-first in the kitchen sink. 

"I—wouldn't say that. I've only had two so far." And they'd both been less of a memory than a total shock to his nervous system. "But they're the reason I found the photo of me wearing your jacket, and how I knew that you'd taken it."

"Ya gotta tell me," Baby pleads. "What are we doin' in yer dreams?"

 _Shit_. They'd just begun this conversation and Emmet is already starting to regret having morals. "It's—a little embarrassing to talk about." And think about. Especially when he can't seem to take his eyes off of Baby's blushing cheeks, their pinkish hue the same shade as his lips. 

"Oh." Baby frowns in defeat. Then, slowly, his eyes widen, and if they'd been characters in a cartoon show, Emmet is certain he'd see a lightbulb magically appear over his head. _"Oh._ Um…Did we—Did we like it?"

Emmet nearly chokes. _"What?"_

"Did we like it?" Baby repeats, louder this time. "Was it good?"

 _Good enough to make me come in my sleep._ "It was...fine." He looks away.

"Um...Emmet?"

_Please no, no more awkward questions._

"There's somethin' I gotta tell ya, too."

 _Even better._ Emmet can feel his heart trying to scale the walls of his throat. 

"Remember when we were in the park, an' you told me I wouldn't of noticed ya unless you were wearin' my jacket? Well, I did. Notice ya, that is. That night you saw me at the bus stop."

"What?" Shock and anger boil up from the pit of his stomach. "Why didn't you say something before?"

"I guess I was scared," Baby says. "I saw ya talkin' with that short blonde girl, and I didn't wanna get my hopes up. I didn't know until later that you were—"

"All this time, I thought you never saw me. Do you know how much stress—" _Wait. What did he say?_ "What do you mean, you didn't want to get your hopes up?"

Blushing deeper, Baby folds his hands and begins to fiddle with his thumbs again. "It's just—you're my type, Emmet."

"What's that?" Emmet barks sarcastically. "Skinny black nerds?"

"Really attractive guys that are out of my league."

"Please. Don't blow smoke up my ass."

Baby thinks for a moment. "Then...how 'bout guys who look like they might be into more'n just sex?"

Emmet shakes his head and coughs up a bitter laugh. "You know, you really are a hopeless romantic."

"I know," Baby replies in a quiet voice. "Guess I can't help it." Downing what little remains of his drink, he grips the edge of the counter and pushes his chair back. "I should prob'ly get goin'. Thanks again for the food."

His Asshole Alarm returning full blast, Emmet scrambles out of his seat after him. "Wait—Take some stew home with you. It's the least I can do." The bare minimum, actually, when it comes to clearing his conscience. "Can't have you eating Hot Pockets all the time," he jokes, a lame effort, though it makes Baby smile a little.

"OK. But only if it's not too much of a bother."

"Of course not." Digging through one of the lower cabinets, Emmet resurfaces with a plastic container in hand—a cheap one, something he won't miss—and fills it with a fresh serving of stew. "Here—" he says as he bestows his offering upon Baby. "You can have the container."

"Maybe I'll bring it back with somethin' good inside," Baby grins. "Or you can come over my place an' I can cook for you next time."

Emmet doesn't want to picture a "next time," least of all one that involves the two of them sharing a box of microwave mac-and-cheese while asking each other uncomfortable questions. But he doesn't want to picture Baby's hurt eyes again either, so he gives a vague "Maybe" in response. 

He's just about to usher him to the door when he notices the jacket hanging from his coat hook. "Oh, don't forget your jacket."

"Don't worry about it," Baby says. "I meant it when I said you can keep it."

"But—" _if I keep it, it'll just remind me of you_ "—it's cold out. You'll get sick wearing just a sweater."

"Thanks, but I'll be fine." He chuckles, "'Sides, it looks better on you than me, anyway."

Those words echo a drumbeat inside Emmet's chest, no different, no less conflicting than the last time he'd heard them. He stares, thinks, wishes Baby would have said anything else, but all his wishing gets him is a quizzical look and another uncomfortable question. "Somethin' the matter? Yer ears got kinda red all of a sudden."

"It's not—I-I'm fine," Emmet stumbles, reaching up to touch one as if he'd needed to draw more attention to them. "You should go—" _before either of us finds an excuse for you to stay_ "—before it gets colder out."

"Yeah, guess I should." There's no hiding the disappointment in his voice as he holds the container out. "Mind hangin' onto this for a sec so I can put my shoes on?"

"Sure," Emmet says, and takes it from him. The plastic feels pleasantly warm in his hands, and as he stares down at it, listening to the soft grunts of Baby's struggle, he idly wonders if Baby will try to return it filled with spaghetti and chicken or a more simple canned ham and instant mashed potatoes. And he _will_ try. Because whether Emmet wants to admit it or not, they're in this mess together now. Until they can find the answers they need. Or until he can find a way to separate them.

He waits until Baby has finished, then walks over and hands the container back. "I'll be in touch if I can think of something else."

"And I'll call if I start rememberin' stuff," Baby says.

"Sounds good. I guess I'll talk to you later, then." Assuming their conversation is over, he holds the door open for him, but Baby only shuffles around on his feet, as if he'd forgotten how goodbyes work. "Bye then?" Emmet adds, so there's no mistaking the intent.

"You'll let me know if ya have any more dreams about us, right?" Baby asks with a tremble. "Please?"

Emmet hesitates. "Yeah...sure."

"Promise?"

 _Should we lock pinkies while we're at it?_ "I'll—I'll text you if that happens." One day he'll need to come up with a better way of lying to people. But for now, judging by the smile Baby gives him, he seems to be in the clear.

"Thanks. Take it easy, Emmet." And with that, he finally makes his exit.

As soon as Baby has stepped outside, Emmet shuts the door and leans back against it, blinking his eyes in exhaustion. _Take it easy?_ That's a joke. There's nothing easy about the questions rippling through his head, all the things he'd been too afraid to ask as he'd allowed Baby to lead them into a trash pit of reminiscence: For how long does Baby think they were together? When did he "wake up"? Had he asked his friends if they remember them? Does he even have friends? He's so shy—why is he so shy when the dreams had made it seem like they'd known each other for years? Had they? What aren't they seeing? What more do they need to do? What does Baby want with him?

Emmet takes a breath and licks his dry lips, at least one of those answers glaringly obvious.

_He wants us to start over._

He'd said that Emmet was his type. He'd told him about his past, laid bare his most vulnerable parts. He'd wanted Emmet to see everything, and Emmet _does_ now; he sees it like he would an object through a viewfinder, a shot settling into frame, waiting for him to press the shutter. Everything that might have happened, everything that could. There's Emmet at the kitchen stove, cooking dinner while Baby stands at his back with his arms wrapped around him. And there they are snuggled up on the couch with a blanket over their laps, passing a pint of ice cream back and forth. Watering the plants on the windowsill, drinking a cup of coffee. Walking through the door after a long day at work, Baby taking off his boots while Emmet hangs up his jacket, both of them comfortable, both of them at home.

Pushing the thought away as he always does, Emmet goes into the kitchen to distract himself with tidying up. As he gathers their bowls and glasses from the counter, his gaze drifts towards the jacket hanging by the door, and he tries to picture a time when it hadn't been there.

He discovers, with a sinking feeling, that he can't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an apron like the one Emmet wears in this chapter. It's good at keeping food splatter off of your clothing. 
> 
> Oh, and I know I got a few things wrong (like the spelling of Meagan's name and Tom's eyepatch location), but I started writing this well before I played the game and I'm not going back to fix things now. Sorry. 
> 
> If you liked it, please leave a comment or a hug. And you can always chat with me on [tumblr.](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com)  
> 


	6. Chorus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry this chapter is a little on the short side...I had to come up with it on the fly when I realized that the path I had planned between chapter 5 and where I'd wanted to take the story didn't work. So now we have Emmet contemplating things. And Tom being an idiot.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like it. And here is the song I listened to for inspiration: ["Sprechchor"](https://youtu.be/AyFVBhLS4ak) by RADWIMPS.

"Wait, wait—he thought we were _dating?"_ Deedee snorts into her bowl of cereal with such force, Emmet expects milk to shoot from her nostrils and redecorate half of his apartment. "I mean, I'd have to dust off my strap-on, probably buy a gallon or two of lube to loosen up your tight ass, but I think if we try hard enough we might be able to make it work."

"Thanks, Dee," he sneers, drowning his annoyance in a gulp of coffee. "I can always count on you to turn a serious situation into Amateur Night at the comedy club."

Lost in giddy laughter, she drops her spoon and digs her elbows into the kitchen counter, the morning light illuminating a galaxy of dirty jokes in her eyes. "Oh come on, Em. Can't you just picture it? It'd be a million times more awkward than that vacation we spent sharing a bed because all the other motel rooms were taken."

"It was only awkward because your boobs kept popping out of your tank top every time you rolled over. And you're clearly missing the point here."

"Well, if the point is to get me to wear a bra to bed, then hoo boy, you are gonna be—"

"He wants us to get back together," Emmet cuts in, before things can go further off the rails. "He said I was his type, he—he sat right where you're sitting now, not even twenty-four hours ago, and told me things any rational person would never say to someone they've just met."

Deedee wrinkles her nose. "What are we talking here? Third-date things?"

"More like 'Take to Your Grave' things. Or 'Did a Stint in Prison' things."

"Holy fuck are you serious?" Eyes wide, she shoves back in her chair, as if the revelation were a gust of wind and she a scrap of paper. "You let me walk in here, make myself a cup of coffee and eat two-thirds a bowl of Cheerios before you decided to drop that? Christ, Em, I could've found you murdered."

"No—no," Emmet shakes his head defensively. "He never murdered anyone." As far as he knows. "He was more the robbery-slash-assault kind of guy." As far as he knows. He's still hung up on processing the whole 'Abused child-turned criminal-turned repentant sinner' thing.

"Good," Deedee replies, scooting forward again. "Because if anyone tries to off you, they're gonna have a crazy ex-gymnast to deal with. I'll vault onto a guy's shoulders and crush his head with my thighs if I have to. And I don't mean that in a sexual way for once."

Emmet almost laughs picturing it, but a weak smile is all his nerves can offer. Quietly, he stares down at his own neglected bowl of cereal, tiny rings doubling in size along with his uncertainty. "What am I supposed to do, Dee? I thought about it, but—" But he hadn't expected such a large part of him to ache at the prospect of hurting Baby's feelings. "But I just don't know."

"Well you could try being honest with him." She spoons another bite of Cheerios into her mouth, then mumbles, "I know how much you hate that, though."

Emmet huffs, "What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Hey, Em, how are you feeling today?"

"I'm fine."

 _"Wrong._ You look miserable," she says with an accusatory jab of her spoon. "You lie all the time. Next thing I know I'll find out you had a box of Fruity Pebbles hiding in your cabinet instead of this cardboard crap."

Rolling his eyes, Emmet declares, "I don't lie to _you,_ Dee." Except about his hidden photos. And how he'd seen Baby at the bus stop that night. And whenever she asks if her favorite tracksuit makes her ass look big. _Casually withholding evidence_ is what he likes to call it. As if Deedee needed to know his every thought. "And what's with the about-face? Weren't you champing at the bit to get me to go out with him?"

"That was before all this weird amnesia shit happened. Now, I just want you to take care of yourself. Can't have you getting bent out of shape every time some guy says he wants to drink your chocolate protein shake."

"Goddammit, Dee," he groans.

"Hey, I'm just telling it like it is. Which is what you should do to Baby, if you don't want to date him. Again."

Emmet frowns into his mug and takes another sip, only to find the coffee lukewarm and unappealing. As he sets it on the counter, he pictures Baby sitting across from him, crying softly as he lets him down. If he looks past the tears and the sniffles, he thinks he can manage to power through it. "You're right; I'll tell him the truth. I mean, It's not like I'm refusing his marriage proposal or anything," he adds with a forced chuckle.

"Speaking of which…" Deedee bats her eyes and flashes him a smile straight out of a teen heartthrob magazine. "What do you think our kids would be like?" 

 _A human disaster?_ Emmet shrugs. "I don't know. They'd probably try to build a particle accelerator while high on caffeine and end up blowing the place to smithereens."

"Yeah, you're probably right," she concedes, stirring the last bit of cereal in her bowl. "We really should have shipped little Demmet off to boarding school."

 

 

"So then he says, 'I got into some bad shit'—"

"Uh-huh."

"—and proceeds to tell me how he'd gone to prison for five years—"

"Hmm."

"—which of course was disturbing enough. But then he starts talking about his childhood, and— _god,_ it was a mess, Meagan. Do you know what his parents did to him?"

Meagan sighs and gives her notebook an idle tap. "No, but I have a feeling you're going to tell me."

"They practically manipulated him into committing crimes for them," Emmet bristles "They abused him and neglected him and then they—they _exploited_ his vulnerability. To make matters worse, it was like I was the only one angry about it. He barely even cr—"

"Not to interrupt this thrilling story," she says, "but from what I've gathered, it's safe to assume you haven't come any closer to solving the mystery of your collective amnesia?"

Emmet notices his fingernails biting into his palms and slowly forces his fists to relax, their rage useless, twenty years too late. "No," he replies, somewhat dejectedly. "He said he wanted to talk about the photos, but we mostly talked about ourselves."

"And what about you? What kind of things did you tell him?"

 _A hell of a lot more than I tell you._ "He wanted to know about my hobbies, things I liked. Cooking and photography." _Stuff you might talk about on a first date._ "It was nothing important."

Brows arching skeptically, she asks, "So you didn't mention anything about your breakdown?"

"What? _No,_ I only just met him."

"Well you certainly seem to appear more at ease around him," Meagan points out with another tap of her pen. "You went from despising him to telling me he smells nice to feeling empathy for all the pain he'd suffered. That's quite an accomplishment for you, Mr. Ellis. All things considered."

 _Empathy?_ Emmet would have preferred _pity_ or _guilt_ instead. He also would have preferred Meagan to come down with an acute case of amnesia as well. "So I changed my mind. It happens." If she's expecting him to admit he'd been wrong about Baby from the start, she's got another thing coming. "No matter how you look at it, Baby didn't deserve to be treated that way."

"What _did_ he deserve?"

He watches his fingers curl and release again, their tips tingling with the imagined sensation of tears. "He deserved...something better than what he was given."

"Would you say you were that thing, Mr. Ellis?"

"Huh?" Emmet ceases staring at his open hands and looks at her. "What do you mean?"

"Do you think maybe you were the better part of his life?" She asks. "That you gave him the support and stability he needed to make up for years of abuse?"

It's a possibility Emmet hadn't thought to consider, despite having listened to Baby's stories, or how he'd sat on his bedroom floor afterwards with the photos laid out before him, resisting the urge to trace his fingers over that bright smile. "I...don't know." Nor should he care. Nor should he fear what might happen if he does. "I'm still trying to figure out why we were together in the first place."

Meagan frowns, crooks her index finger around her pearls and gives a light tug. "Well, you must have seen something in him, given you were together for—was it a year, you said?"

He nods. "It sure as hell looked like it. But I can't—he's nothing like anyone I've dated before." He sees Meagan start to open her mouth and quickly elaborates, "I mean, none of my boyfriends were ex-cons." They also weren't quite as caring or compassionate, and none of them had ever made it through a conversation without giving Emmet reason to yank his hair out. Though perhaps Baby only seems to be all those things because Emmet doesn't know him well enough yet. _Yet._ The thought of it sends a ripple of doubt through his brain. "It doesn't make any sense."

"Maybe it was _because_ your ex was different from the others. Opposites attract, right?" She chuckles.

"Please Meagan, I've heard enough shitty romance cliches to last the rest of my life." Not to mention he's going to have that Paula Abdul song stuck in his head all day. "And stop referring to him as my ex."

"What should I call him, then? You're not currently dating, are you?"

"No, but…" The acid in his stomach starts to churn, pitching his reservations to-and-fro. "He wants to, though."

"He told you that?"

"Not explicitly." Emmet glances away. "But I could just sense it. He's not a very subtle person."

"Is he the kind of person you'd be willing to give a chance to, though?"

"Honestly—" As if that had ever helped him before. "—I'm not sure."

Meagan abandons her pearls in favor of jotting a note in her book. "While we're on the topic of honesty—"

 _Fuck._ He should have seen this coming.

"—what do _you_ want from this, Mr. Ellis?"

Peace and quiet. To move without thinking, think without feeling. To close his eyes and not see Baby standing at the opposite end of the darkness. Waiting for him.

He stares down at his feet and gently kicks his toes against the carpet. "Sometimes I just want to forget again."

"And the other times?" Meagan asks.

All Emmet has to do is blink and Baby is there once more, the answer to Meagan's question flashing in his smile.

"The other times, I know I can't."

 

 

It's nothing short of a miracle that Emmet makes it all the way to Wednesday night before his phone lights up with a message from Baby.

 **B:** _Hey. Are you busy?_

He is, if _busy_ consisted of lounging on his couch in his pajamas, scarfing down a container of leftover Chinese while watching Captain Picard match wits with Q. But as he gazes at the screen, he finds the question doesn't alarm him as much as he assumed it would, now that he's holding the words in his hand and not his head. He sends a quick response.

 **E:** _No, why?_

A few seconds later:

 **B:** _Can I call you?_

 _No. Yes. Maybe?_ Emmet could definitely stand another day or two without Baby's voice ringing in his ears. He could also stand to own a flux capacitor and a Delorean, but neither of those seems probable at the moment.

 **E:** _Sure._

He sets his dinner on the coffee table and mutes the television, lets the phone ring a couple of times before answering, so Baby won't think him too eager for conversation. "Hey."

"H-Hey." Baby sounds every bit as nervous as Emmet had felt the first time they'd talked. "How—how've ya been?"

"I'm...OK." _Better if I'd had an excuse not to pick up the call._ "Did you...need anything?"

The response rushes out: "I think I mighta found somethin'."

 _Great._ Less than thirty seconds in and Emmet's guts are already confusing his meal of cold noodles with live earthworms. "Y-Yeah? What—what is it?"

"Undies."

 _Oh my god. He didn't just say_ — "You found _underwear?"_

"Yeah, a pair of boxers," Baby explains, as if it were as commonplace as stumbling across a penny on the sidewalk. "Extra small, kinda orange-color, with yellow an' red stripes. Reminds me of a hotdog."

"Well, they're not mine," balks Emmet. "I don't wear boxers." And if he did, he sure as hell wouldn't wear any that made his ass look like a hotdog.

"Maybe you did this one time? You could always come over an' try 'em on to see if they fit."

"You're kidding, right?" The last thing he needs is to be naked at Baby's place, trying on a dubious pair of undergarments.

Baby lets out a nervous titter. "Umm…"

"Why don't _you_ try them on," Emmet jeers, "and let me know how that goes?"

"I already did."

 _Oh my god._ "Wait—you didn't—" The image of a large ginger cat attempting to squeeze into a tissue box comes to mind, and Emmet bites his lip to stop himself from giggling. "Now I know you're pulling my leg."

"I mean, I didn't think it could hurt," Baby replies. "But…"

"But let me guess...it did?"

"I got half my leg in before I fell over."

Unable to hold back, Emmet explodes in a fit of laughter. "I—I'm sorry," he says, wiping tears from his eyes. "I—please tell me you didn't injure yourself."

"Nah, I'm OK. Hurts a little when I sit down, though."

"What on earth possessed you to even think of that?" He asks once his lungs stop burning. "No offense, but you look like you came out of the womb ready to bench press Big Bird."

Baby chuckles, "I guess it was kinda dumb. Got ya to laugh at least."

"Yeah, but I feel like a dick about it."

"Don't. It makes me happy. Knowin' I can still make ya smile."

The worms in Emmet's stomach start to wriggle again, his skin hot, palm sweating around the phone. "I—um—w-why did you think they were mine? The boxers, I mean."

"Dunno. Guess I just pictured you wearin' 'em and got excited thinkin' maybe I found a clue. Not like I picture ya in yer undies a lot. Promise."

The sound of his laughter is both alluring and unsettling, and Emmet finds himself town between the desire to hear more, and the urge to reach up and stab its echo from his eardrums permanently. "Sorry to disappoint you, then," he says bluntly. "But you must have gotten them from someone else."

Baby's voice bubbles over with panic. "It's not what yer thinkin', I swear. I don't go bringin' lotsa guys home with me jus' so I can kick 'em out without their clothes on."

Emmet sighs. "It's fine, Baby. I'm not going to fault you for having an active sex life."

"But y'know I'd never cheat on ya, right? Back when we were together? I'd never even think about it. I'd've treated ya real good."

There's a lump in Emmet's throat with the truth written all over it; he doesn't need the photos to remind him, or the dreams, the way Baby's eyes had lit up when he'd shared the plot of his favorite romance novel. How he'd spoken to him as though longing to hear his voice, looked at him as though his face were a work of art. He swallows, tries to convince his heart to stop beating so fast. "Was there...anything else you needed from me?"

The line goes quiet. Then, calmly, Baby says, "I was thinkin' 'bout the pictures we took."

His heart refuses to listen. "Y-Yeah? What about them?"

"Just that...I can't remember ever bein' in yer apartment, but some of the other ones—the ones that were outside—I thought maybe if we went to some a'those places, we might be able to remember."

Slowly, Emmet exhales. "That's...actually a smart idea." Considering the person it had come from. "I haven't looked at the photos recently—" He had. Quite a lot. Though it wasn't the scenery that often drew his gaze. "—but I can check again and see what I find."

"Did ya—" Baby hesitates. "Do ya wanna go together?"

 _Together?_ Wait, was he—was he asking him on a date? "Oh. Oh, you mean—" Shit, what is he supposed to say? "You wanna go—outside?" _Great. Fucking perfect. Who looks like the idiot now?_

"Yeah. I was thinkin' it might jog our memories if we could renac—reenact some of the stuff we used to do."

The photo of him sitting nude on the couch with the jacket hanging from his shoulder shoots to the forefront of Emmet's mind, and Emmet nearly stops breathing. 

"We could go this weekend, if ya want," continues Baby, completely oblivious to Emmet's distress. "I wasn't gonna do much anyway 'cept maybe go to the gym an' watch the game on Sunday."

The two of them holding hands. With their arms around each other. In bed. _He wants to_ reenact _it?_

"Um, maybe we could get somethin' to eat after—"

"I gotta go," Emmet abruptly exclaims. "I—need to use the bathroom. I'll talk to you some other time."

"Oh. Yeah, sure," Baby says. "Hope yer feelin' alright. And let me know—"

He hangs up before Baby can finish, but it's obvious what he was going to say, even if Emmet's mind takes it upon itself to twist the words into something far more terrifying.

_Let me know what you want._

He looks down at the phone in his hand and tries to come up with an answer.

 

 

 **E:** _I panicked, Dee. I didn't know what to do._  
**D:** _So you used diarrhea as an excuse?_  
**E:** _What was I supposed to say?  
_ **D:** _I don't know. How about anything else?_

The sound of the break room door opening makes Emmet jerk his head up, but the woman who enters only gives him an odd look before heading straight to the coffee maker. His phone vibrates urgently.

 **D:** _Emmet, please don't fuck around with this guy.  
_ **D:** _Just hurt his feelings and get it over with._

That's easy for her to say; she'd never looked into Baby's eyes while she told him some of her deepest secrets. Or shared a room with him, a bed, an entire life. For all Deedee knows, he's just another ex, and for all his stunted eloquence, Emmet can't find the words to express the opposite. 

 **E:** _I will. I just haven't figured out how to do it yet.  
_ **D:** _Well figure it out fast. You're gonna have an aneurysm if you keep stressing yourself out like this._

The door swings open again, and a familiar voice cuts the air: "Emmet, pal! What's happening?"

"Hey, Tom," he replies, typing out a quick message to Deedee:

 **E:** _Gotta go. Tom's here._  
**D:** _Ooh ask him to tell another one of his war stories.  
_ **E:** _Not on your life._

He stifles a laugh and puts the phone away just as he hears the chair opposite him scrape across the floor. Mug in hand, Tom takes his seat at the table. "So...whatcha been up to?"

"Um...working?" Awkward conversation notwithstanding, Emmet is just thankful Tom's mug is full of coffee and not soup. Praise the tomato gods for that one. "What about—"

"Hey, I was thinking of having another Happy Hour next Thursday. You in?"

Emmet gives him an incredulous look. "You do realize next Thursday is Thanksgiving?"

"I think you mean it's the perfect day for some sweet holiday pay," Tom laughs. 

"What about your family?" Does Tom even have family? Aside from Brenda, and maybe Brenda's divorce lawyer?

"They're off volunteering at soup kitchens for directionally-challenged orphans," proclaims Tom proudly. "Poor little Timmy and Tammy always turning left when you tell them to go right. Half of them end up walking into bear traps, they're so hungry for food. You know how it is."

Emmet does not, nor does he want to continue picturing little Timmy getting mangled by a bear trap on his way to the pizza parlor. "Well, my break's over," he says, quickly rising to make his exit. "Guess I'll talk to you later, then."

"You got it, buddy. Tell management I said not to work you too hard."

 _And you can tell the orphans I said Hi,_ he considers sniping back. But as he's mulling it over, something else pops into his mind, and despite his better judgment, he finds he can't resist. "Hey, Tom? How would you deal with a person giving you unwanted attention?"

Tom's eye narrows. "Someone around here getting grabby with you?"

"Oh, no, it's—" _Unrequited romantic amnesia?_ "—more of an innocent crush." Or so he hopes. He hadn't stopped to ask Baby if he'd wanted to take him out for gelato or "drink his chocolate protein shake," as Deedee had so lovingly referred to it.

Rubbing his chin in contemplation, Tom asks, "Is it Sheila from Accounting? Ah, she's always doing this kind of stuff. Just tell her you're not into—"

"It's not someone from the office; it's my ex," Emmet explains, the word still feeling odd against his lips. "He wants to patch things up and I'm not sure how to tell him no."

"Hmm…" Tom's pause drones on for song long, Emmet can almost hear the finger-guns firing off in his brain. "Can you get something out of it?"

 _What?_ Does he mean sex or...is he expecting him to barter with Baby? Twenty cattle for his troubles? "Um...I'm not sure I understand."

"You know. Can you get a nice dinner out of him, or an oil change, maybe five pairs of ladies' pantyhose? Stuff like that?"

Well, he'd already gotten a jacket, though he'd never asked for it. Besides… "Isn't that kind of dishonest?"

But Tom simply waves off his concern. "Just think of it as a parting gift," he says. "Make him take you out for a fancy meal, order some steak and champagne, then let him down easy. Or hard, depending on whether or not the place has security. You catch my drift?"

Emmet wants to ask him if this is another means of "respecting himself," but decides it better to bite his tongue and head for the door. "Well, I'll think about it. Thanks for the advice."

"Anytime, pal. And get back to me about that Happy Hour. I know a place that serves turkey bacon potato skins! Half off!"

"Maybe," Emmet says as he walks away, because he doesn't have the nerve to break Tom's heart either.

 

Later that night, after a long shower and an even lengthier stint of procrastination, Emmet gives in to his nagging thoughts and begins filing through the photos again, as he'd told Baby he would. The ones taken in his apartment—sweet and juicy and suggestive—he sets aside immediately, face-down to resist stealing glances in their direction. Whatever remains he dissects with surgical precision, picking apart every branch, every petal, each beam of light that bounces off their bodies. Some settings are too bright, others too vague. The diner he recognizes right away, though he's not going to take Baby there; that spot belongs to him and Deedee. Stubbornly, he searches again, certain there must be something else, some giveaway as to where they had been. Anything besides random benches and trees and—

He comes to a halt on the picture of them standing before the fountain. 

There's nothing remarkable about its concrete border or tarnished bowl, but if Emmet looks hard enough, he thinks he can see one of the stone cherubs on the wall behind it missing the tip of its trumpet, a stubby protrusion that sticks out by his left shoulder, announcing itself to the world.

He grabs his phone and calls Baby.

"Hey," Baby answers, in a happy chirp this time. "What's up?"

"So, I was going over the photos again," Emmet begins, sitting on the bed with the Polaroid in question atop his thigh, "and I came across something. Have you ever been to Elkwood Park?"

"I think. A couple times, maybe. Is that downtown near the river?"

"Yeah, there's a fountain there that I recognize. It looks like we took a picture in front of it." He doesn't know if Baby remembers the finer details of the photo, but he's not up for describing it again, so he'll just have to take his word for it. "I couldn't figure out any of the other locations, but I'm pretty sure we were there."

Baby's voice lights up. "Oh man, that's great! Maybe—" He stops for a moment, seems to stumble over his thoughts. "Maybe I—I'll hafta go an' check it out. I can let ya know what I find. Sound good?"

Actually, it doesn't. It sounds more like Baby had just flunked a test he'd spent weeks studying for, and Emmet had been the one to hand him the grade. Staring down at the photo, he drags his thumb across Baby's image and tries not to picture how he looks on the other end of the line, without his customary smile. "Hey, Baby..."

"Yeah?"

A chorus of voices echoes in his head, singing out in fractured harmony. "I just—"

_Try being honest with him_

"I thought that—"

_What do you want from this_

"Maybe—"

_Five pairs of ladies' pantyhose_

"Are you still free on Saturday?" He blurts out.

"Um, yeah." Baby pauses. "Why?"

"I thought maybe we could go looking together."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked it, please leave a comment or a hug. And you can always chat with me on [tumblr.](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com)  
> 


	7. Merry-Go-Round

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and welcome back to Emmet's Carnival of Indecisiveness. Today, Emmet and Baby will venture into the outside world together on what is definitely not a "date."
> 
> This may have been my favorite chapter to write so far. It's just...fun. Like Baby's bear beret, which I borrowed from this fabulous fanart: [Fashionista Baby](https://eddy-paw.tumblr.com/post/184005045552/fashionist-baby-i-see-fashionable-of-emmy-so-i)
> 
> Also, at this point, I have borrowed so many location names from Philadelphia, let's just say that's where the setting is now.
> 
> Some listening for this chapter: ["Amaotoko"](https://youtu.be/h2SBB9_pywc) by RADWIMPS

"Fuck, it's hot as balls out here." One hand braced on the fountain wall, Emmet leans back a bit farther, hoping the mist that peppers his neck and shoulders might cool him off more than his lukewarm cup of ice cream soup had. Downing the last of it, he wipes more sweat from his forehead, his brain too busy sizzling like an egg to care if he ends up with streaks of melted strawberry cheesecake on his face. "If it's this bad now, I don't even want to think about what a blazing shitshow August will be," he groans.

Sitting beside him, Baby grins and takes another sloppy spoonful from his own cup, quick to catch the trickle of chocolate that drips down his chin before it can stain his shirt. "Maybe if ya wore yer sandals without socks, ya wouldn't be meltin' into a puddle."

"I'm not ice cream, Baby. As much as you sometimes like to think I am." Christ, has he always been so lame at innuendo? He thinks he might even be blushing, though it could just be the heatstroke setting in.

"Yer not so stylish, either," Baby tosses back. "I thought only hipsters did that kinda stuff. Or are ya gonna grow a beard an' start drinkin' fancy beer?"

"Oh, do not even get me started on style today. You look like a sailor in that tank."

Gazing down at himself, Baby tugs on the hem of his blue-and-white striped tank top, then turns and flashes Emmet another silly grin. "Well, I 'spose I do like seamen."

Emmet bursts into laughter. "You—I swear—"

"It's true, though, ain't it?" Baby's innocent voice peeks through. "'Sides, didn't ya say I looked nice earlier?"

"Well…" Gasping for breath, he scrubs his joyful tears away. "Guess I've got a thing for _seamen_ too. Especially ones wearing cute teddy bear berets."

Blame it on the heat or sheer embarrassment, but Baby's cheeks light up a prickly shade of pink. He reaches to touch his cap, and Emmet can almost picture his fingertips as big, round eyes peering out from an adorably fuzzy face. "I can't just _not_ wear it," he says. "One of the guys at work's daughter gave it to me at our barbecue last year. Plus, my head gets sunburn real bad if I'm out too long."

"Well, I think it's cute," Emmet repeats, pinching one of the bear's ears. "You're much more stylish than I could ever be."

"We can get ya a pair a'those neon sunglasses with the palm trees on 'em, if that'll help."

"Maybe when we're on vacation, _if_ you get me drunk enough." He feels Baby's arm begin to snake around his waist and squirms away. "Hey! It's way too hot out for that."

Baby whimpers, "But I wanna hug ya."

"You can hug me once we've cooled off. And maybe after a shower." The way the sun has been beating down on them, he's certain he must have sweated out all his deodorant by now. Though he sure as hell isn't about to sniff his pits to check, nor is he willing to ask Baby to do it for him, despite the funny feeling that he would be more than happy to oblige.

But Baby doesn't try to argue further; instead, he gently lays a hand on his knee, and though his palm is clammy and hot, it still sends a shiver across Emmet's skin, as if to promise much more than just a hug later. "Maybe we can go to the art museum fountain," he offers. "Splash around in there a bit?" 

Emmet scoffs, "And get some kind of rash from all those strangers? No thanks." He thinks for a minute, purposefully jogging his knee up and down until Baby giggles and pins it in place. "What about the science museum? I'm sure they've got air conditioning there. And..." He gives him a sly look. "I can always teach you about the Big Bang."

Baby's eyes widen in feigned offense. "In public? But there's kids around."

They both laugh at that, and Emmet leans in to press a quick kiss to his cheek. "OK, maybe we'll save that for when we're alone. But if you want, we can go to Franklin Square after the museum and watch the carousel. I know how much you like that."

"Really?" Baby beams, blue eyes burning with excitement. "Like we did on our third date?"

"Oh, so you're counting?"

"It's kinda hard t'forget when I'm around ya."

Now, Emmet is definitely blushing, but at least it doesn't feel half as bad as Baby's apple-red cheeks look. "We could even get falafel afterwards like we did then."

"And more ice cream?" Asks Baby.

Emmet glances at the empty cup in his hand, belly still churning its own unique flavor of gelato. At their backs, the fountain bubbles a relaxing tune, accompanied by the chirping of birds, the rustle of shrubbery, Baby's voice echoing in his head, warm and tempting as the breeze. Calmly, he turns and looks around the park, gazing past the brick archway and down the wide set of stairs to where the river flows behind a short, squat wall. And as he leans in closer and curls his arm around Baby's sweat-soaked waist, he pictures the two of them strolling along the river's edge with all the other couples, hand-in-hand beneath a cloudless sky. Smiling, he hugs him tight. 

"Sure. We've got all the time in the world."

 

Thirty seconds.

It takes all of thirty seconds for Emmet to blink the dream from his eyes, but in that short amount of time he's already convinced himself that Baby is lying there beside him, his cheeks dusted with the same crimson glow that lights up the clock face:

_7:38 AM._

_So much for sleeping in._ Grumbling, he pulls the covers over his head, but the heat, the stifling air only reminds him of that summer day, Baby's hand on his leg and Emmet's lips on his cheek, so soft and warm he can still feel it. Throwing back the covers in resignation, he sits up and checks the clock again:

_7:40._

They're supposed to meet at the park by four, late enough in the day to keep contact to a minimum, and more than enough time for Emmet to get his shit together. The "shit" in question now consisting of another bad (albeit somewhat pleasant) dream, in addition to the standard anxiety that comes with being in Baby's company. 

Despite knowing he shouldn't, he looks one more time:

_7:41. Fuck._

Why the hell had he done it? Had it felt that bad to tell him no? And why—of all things—had he thought it would be a good idea to forgo taking his sleeping pills for the night?

Because he'd been stupid. His scientific mind had grown too curious for its own good, eager to see if the dreams had simply run their course, like some form of mental virus. And now that he'd proven his theory to be false, Emmet has no one but himself to blame for the uncomfortable warmth he feels in his belly. _A semen joke?_ Christ, had he really been that juvenile?

As if it's any consolation, at least Baby had seemed to enjoy his awkward company. Better yet, they'd both been wearing clothes this time. 

He sighs and rubs his eyes. 

Clothes or not, they're going out in public together. And though Emmet knows it shouldn't bother him this much—not after they'd spent time alone, shared a good meal and more secrets than he'd felt comfortable hearing said aloud—he still can't shake the nauseating sensation that something terrible is going to happen. Something of a pinch, or a bruise. Or a confession. 

He thinks of the dream, how Baby had tried to pull him closer, despite the heat and the sweat and the prying eyes around them. As if he didn't care about any of it; as if he were only doing what felt right to him. And Emmet had given in and done the same.

He shivers. Looks to the clock.

_7:46._

_I can do this. Whatever happens, happens._ No matter what Baby asks of him, no matter what he expects, Emmet will find an answer this time, even if he has to hurt him in the process. Even if he has to hurt the both of them. 

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he heads to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee.

 

The fountain at Elkwood looks nothing like he remembers. That is to say, it does, but in a way Emmet hadn't glimpsed before, like leaves changing colors, or weeds sprouting between random cracks in the sidewalk. Its pool has been drained for the winter, bowl quiet and dull under overcast skies, and the cherub behind it has since had its trumpet patched with concrete and rebar, but as far as the rest goes, it's all the same. The only other difference, he supposes, would be Baby's presence, though that should change soon. It had been Emmet's plan to arrive early, to give himself a few more minutes to sort through the marbles in his head and maybe snap a quick photo, the latter much less calming than he would have preferred, despite how hard he clutches it between his fingers.

"Emmet?"

_Time's up._

Marbles still jittering, Emmet turns to see Baby walking towards him. He's wearing a dark green windbreaker over his sweater this time—a step up from the usual—and carries a brown paper bag in each hand. "I hope I didn't make ya wait too long," he says with a timid smile.

"No, it's alright," Emmet replies. "I only just got here." _Fifteen minutes ago._ "What's in the bags?"

"Oh! I got us some soft pretzels, in case ya were hungry." He offers one of the bags to Emmet, who accepts it with a smidge of suspicion. "Dunno 'bout you, but I haven't ate much today."

Emmet's stomach gives an enthusiastic growl at the smell of warm bread and salt, excited for something other than the meager bowl of cereal he'd forced into it at breakfast. "Thanks. I guess I could eat." He's just gobbled up his first bite when he sees Baby's grin fade to a frown. _Oh god. What happened? Did he poison me?_ "Wh-What's wrong?"

"Are ya nervous?" Baby asks in a melancholy tone.

Emmet tenses. "Why?"

"You took a photo," he says, his gaze sinking to Emmet's other hand, limp and forgotten at his side. 

"Oh." Turning the photo over for a final glance, Emmet quickly slips it into his pocket. "Maybe—just a little." He catches the concern in Baby's eyes and adds, "Because of what we might find." _Not because of you. Not much._

The fib seems to assuage Baby's fears to some extent. "Um...if there's anythin' I can do to help—"

"I'll be fine. You don't need to worry about me."

"Guess I can't help worryin'," Baby says. "But if it makes ya feel any better, I'm kinda nervous too."

 _About what?_ Wonders Emmet, unsure if he really wants to know. "So…um...what now?" After all, this had been Baby's idea, even if he'd foolishly agreed to it.

Baby stares off into the distance, as if pondering Emmet's question. "We could sit an' eat for a bit. Then after that we can walk around an' see if we remember anythin'."

"Sure." _I guess it couldn't hurt._ Picking out a spot on the fountain wall, Emmet perches on the edge, crossing his fingers that Baby leaves a small distance between them. He does, though it's still near enough that Emmet has to keep watch over his knee, lest they both accidentally bump together. As if his brain weren't overloaded with worry as it is. "Have you...been to this park a lot?" He asks, figuring some polite conversation might make things less awkward.

Baby looks over at him, mouth half-open and ready to bite into his pretzel. "I used to. Back when I lived near the El train. I'd get off an' go joggin' by the river on my way to the gym. How 'bout you?"

"Maybe a few times, not counting the photo we found." _Or the dream I just had._ "It's a little far from my place. I had to catch a bus and then transfer to the train to get here. Unless I wanted to walk twenty minutes through the cold." Although, factoring in the warmth from Baby's jacket, he might have been able to make it with his legs being the only casualties. 

"Do ya think maybe we'd come here 'cause it was a halfway point between our places?" Baby asks him. "Like it made for the perfect date?"

 _Perfect?_ Doubtful. _Date?_ Emmet isn't in the mood to think about that right now. He's trying to keep his appetite, not pass out from hunger. Though the thought of coming to in Baby's arms doesn't help much. He crams a chunk of pretzel into his mouth, chokes it down almost too fast. "Maybe. I guess it's possible."

"Whuzz'r fav'rite par?" Mumbles Baby, cheeks packed like a hamster.

Emmet gives him an off-putting look. "I—could you repeat that?"

Chewing his food thoroughly, Baby swallows, then says, "Sorry, I always forget not to talk with my mouth full. It's a bad habit a'mine. You prob'ly woulda gone nuts over it."

 _Nuts_ seems a bit strong. _Annoyed to the point of insanity?_ "It's...not that bad. I mean, there are worse things," he says. "I once dated a guy who would pick his nose and wipe it behind his ear."

Baby grimaces. "That's...pretty nasty. Sometimes I scratch my butt in public, but only 'cause I'm not payin' attention."

Emmet laughs so hard he almost spits out his pretzel. "That's—" He takes a moment to calm down before finishing his thought, because the only thing worse than passing out in Baby's arms would be getting snapped in half by a Heimlich more powerful than the jaws of life. "That's not as uncommon as you would think."

"Yeah? Do _you_ do it?"

"Oh god, no. I think the worst I've done is pick my teeth after a meal. And I can never seem to keep my dirty laundry in the hamper."

Baby chuckles. "Yeah, me neither." 

"Oh, and when I was teaching, I would always wait until the last minute to grade papers. I'd get nervous thinking about messing something up."

"But yer so smart," Baby protests through another bite of pretzel.

Turning his head, Emmet gazes off into the distance, wishing the sky were brighter and the fountain still bubbling, so he had something more to focus on than his regrets. "That doesn't mean I don't make mistakes." Especially if he counts the one sitting beside him. "But it doesn't matter," he says quietly, looking at Baby again. "What was it you wanted to ask before?"

The question seems to sail over Baby's head a moment before he manages to catch it, his eyes lighting up as if a lamp had been switched on behind them. "Oh! I was gonna ask what's yer favorite park 'round here?"

Suspicion setting in again, Emmet asks, "Why?"

"It's just—well, I know we been here," he explains, mouth empty this time, "but nothin's comin' back to me. Maybe if we went somewhere else, we'd have better luck."

 _Fair enough._ As much as Emmet would love to cut this outing short, Baby does make a good point. "I think my favorite might be Washington Square. It's calm, and there's a lot of history behind it."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"It's most famously known as a mass graveyard for Eighteenth-Century African-Americans and Revolutionary War soldiers. Plus there are lots of benches and trees, if the thought of walking over dead bodies freaks you out."

Baby's brow knits in distress. "Umm…maybe just a little. If we go, you'll protect me from any zombies, right?"

 _Zombies? Now that's rich._ "Sure," Emmet replies with a smirk. "I'll carry you up a tree. Everyone knows zombies can't climb trees."

"What about cat zombies?"

Oh, Emmet could have a field day with this. "Cat zombies, huh?" Stroking his chin like a cartoon scientist, he pretends to weigh their options. "Well…if you factor in the claws and the superior night-vision, add the penchant for assholery, carry the nine..." He looks at Baby and shrugs. "I guess we're fucked then."

Their laughter echoes around the empty fountain, warming Emmet's body like the sunlight in his dream, the press of Baby's hand on his skin. He can't stop himself, doesn't want to try. "At least we'll die together," he says.

"In a tree—"

"—craving mice brains—"

"—'til the zombie fire department gets us down."

Emmet wheezes, clutching his stomach. "Shit, stop it, Baby. I'm gonna laugh myself to death."

"Well, 'least we'll die together," Baby echoes. And he places his hand on Emmet's shoulder.

Reality surges like an electric current through his muscles. Without warning, Emmet flinches, causing Baby to jerk his hand back in shock. "I-I-I'm sorry," Baby stammers. "I didn't mean to—"

"It's—it's alright, it's—" 

 _It's not your fault._ It had only been a touch, and they'd touched before, in the present, in the past, in much less innocent ways. Baby couldn't have guessed how he'd react, and Emmet had only been concerned with what to say next, how to keep them both laughing. He hadn't thought—

He hadn't thought he'd miss the feel of it so much. 

"We'll take the train to Washington when we're done here," he coughs, staring down at his mostly-eaten pretzel. "Maybe we'll find something there."

"Yeah, sure," Baby replies in a hush. 

As much as he hates to, as much as it pains him, Emmet chances a look in Baby's direction and sees the same man from that night at the park: too scared to speak, too hesitant to smile without permission. Though Emmet knows he wants to; he knows more about him that he ever thought he would. "Maybe after that we could walk to Franklin Square, if you wanted."

Baby stops picking his food apart with his fingers. "Really? I love that place. How'd you know?"

 _It was a hunch— You seemed like the person—_ _I thought_ — "From a dream I had," he confesses. "Just this morning."

"You had another dream about us? What was it like? What were we doin'?" Baby asks with barely a breath in between. 

"It was summer, July I think. We were sitting right here, and—" _making horrible dirty jokes_ "—talking while we ate ice cream. You—" He shakes his head, smiles softly at the memory. "You were wearing this nautical-looking striped shirt, and a little hat with bear ears."

Baby blushes then, another callback to Emmet's dream. "I still got that hat, y'know. But I don't really wear it out anymore. Most of the guys I was with thought it was too silly."

 _Well, I liked it._ "I don't know. I think it kind of suited you."

"Thanks." His cheeks grow brighter, deep pink spreading to the tips of his ears. "What—what else did we do?"

Emmet bites his lip, but lets the thoughts come tumbling out anyway. "You tried to put your arm around me, but I told you it was too hot. We discussed going to cool off at the science museum, and then going to the park afterward to watch the carousel. You got excited when I brought it up."

'Well, yeah, that's like one a'my favorite things," Baby says, grinning ear-to-ear. "I loved ridin' the merry-go-round whenever I went to the fair. It was so pretty with all the lights an' horses. I used to be scared of the faster rides, until I got older an' my friends would all make fun a'me." His eyes gleam so brightly, Emmet can almost see his reflection in them. "What was yer favorite thing about the fair when you were little?"

"Um…" Emmet tries to think of something that won't sour the mood again. "I guess I always liked going through the funhouse. And the house of mirrors. Anything that didn't move so much." _Rides aren't much fun if you have no one to ride them with._ "But I like going to theme parks now that I'm older. My friend Deedee and I always try to ride every roller coaster twice."

"Oh man, I haven't been on a roller coaster in years. What about clowns? Do they creep ya out like they do to me?"

"What, guys wearing big red noses with mouth-splitting smiles painted on their faces? Nah. Not creepy at all," he jokes. "But please tell me you and your muscles cleared out half of those game booths."

"Yep," Baby laughs, "I was swingin' mallets an' knockin' over milk bottles left and right. Had to give all the prizes away, though. Otherwise my folks woulda jus' thrown 'em out." He glances down for a moment, his stubborn smile flickering. "Lotsa girls liked me, so it was easy. Only thing wasn't easy was pretendin' I liked 'em back."

Growing up gay in the South without the love and support of family is a scenario that Emmet, in all his tortured but privileged years, had never once stopped to consider. But from the way Baby is fighting to keep his cheerfulness, he can tell it must have been rough. "When was the first time you realized you were attracted to men?" He asks, because he's genuinely curious.

"There was a kid in my grade who ran track," Baby says. "We used to make out an' do other stuff in the equipment room after school. I—" He stops, looks away again. "I told 'im I'd break both his legs if he ever said anythin'. I didn't really mean it, I was just scared'a what'd happen if Ma an' Pa found out. It was an awful thing to say. I still get upset thinkin' about it."

Yeah, Emmet can see that much, his crystal eyes wavering as if they might burst. "What you said was pretty bad," he tells him, hoping to tame the flood, "but it doesn't make you a bad person. You just made a mistake under difficult circumstances. You should give yourself a chance to forgive it." Christ, he's starting to sound like Deedee now. Though he figures it could be worse; he could sound like Meagan or Tom.

Swiping at the corner of his eye, Baby asks, "What about you? What was yer first time with a guy like?"

A bit of a personal question, but Emmet feels it only fair to answer since he'd started down this route. "I was a freshman in college, he was in one of my classes. It was...awkward to say the least." The most awkward sixty seconds of his life. "I was so embarrassed, I transferred classes afterwards. It was Introductory Calculus, and I was bored, anyway."

"Yeah, I get it. I, um—I didn't do so good my first time either. He said it was like stickin' his mouth in a wet gym sock with teeth."

"Wow. I think I would have done more than threaten to break his legs over that."

"Nah," Baby chuckles, "he made me laugh. Kinda like you."

A deep breath of cold air does nothing to chill Emmet's burning insides, or keep him from wondering how alike he and this boy might have been, if Baby had called him special as well— _gorgeous._ If he should feel pride or envy or nothing at all. If he even wants to feel something. 

Lacking an answer, he turns and climbs to his feet before Baby has the chance to ask a more personal question, and he to respond with something even more embarrassing, like which length of toy he prefers, or how, on rare occasions and with the right partner, he'll ask to have his legs bent back over his head like the pretzels they'd just consumed. "We should head out now," he blushes. "Before it gets too late." 

"Hey, Emmet?"

Emmet looks down at Baby sitting on the fountain wall, the empty paper bag twisted into a rope between his fists. He almost hates to ask, "Is everything OK?"

"Thanks," Baby says.

"For what? Making you laugh?"

"No. For tellin' me about the dream."

"It's no problem," he replies, forcing a smile. "You—" _looked so sad_ "—told me to keep you posted, so I—" _had to make it up to you_ "—thought you might want to hear about it."

The lie works; springing up beside him, Baby grins and gives a happy salute. "Lead the way, Cap!"

As they walk towards the street together, Emmet catches himself casting small glances back at the fountain every few seconds, his mind sparking with a casual wonder of who might have taken their photo that day, which lucky stranger he would have entrusted with his camera. But the thought itself is fleeting. Because every time he turns, Baby's smiling face creeps into his line of sight, until its image becomes the only thing worthy of his attention.

 

Washington Square turns out to be a bust. True, Emmet hadn't been expecting a "Eureka!" moment, but after three trips around the park and Baby's insistence that they sit on every single bench for no less than five minutes, all he's gained from the experience is a sore ass and tired feet.

Well, perhaps that isn't entirely accurate.

To pass the time (and to take their minds off the far-from-comfy seating), Baby had come up with a game of sorts. For every bench they sat on, they would each get to ask one question. The game would keep going until someone refused to answer, at which point that person would owe the other a cup of coffee. Bored as he was with their search, Emmet had readily agreed to the terms. That's how he'd come to learn that Baby's favorite color was green (obviously), that he'd broken three bones in his lifetime (including the time he'd fallen out of a tree while trying to return a baby bird to its nest), and that he couldn't read his romance novels in public because he would blush too hard over the sex scenes. And while Emmet had refused to ignite a war over whether cats or dogs were the superior species, he had given up his favorite swear word (fuck), the first album he'd bought (Ace of Base's _The Sign_ on cassette tape), and regaled Baby with one of his most embarrassing pick-up lines, which had apparently been so entertaining, Baby is still giggling over it half an hour later as they walk through the dusky streets with their coffees in hand.

"' _Wanna go back to my place an' form a covalent bond?'_ Are you kiddin' me?"

"Oh please," huffs Emmet, "like you even know what that means."

"I know it was bad enough to make ya puke on that guy's shoes."

"Only because I was nervous. I never would have even tried to pick him up unless my roommate dared me to."

"Ooh! Ooh!" Baby chirps excitedly, "Try one on me! Pretend I'm in a scientist bar and I jus' dropped one a'my test tubes."

Emmet rolls his eyes. "Just shut up and drink your caramel-apple-whipped-diabetes drink." 

"With _extra_ cimmanim," he stresses. 

"Yes, with extra _synonym."_

What starts as a snort quickly snowballs into a giggle, and like that they're both laughing again, the sound ringing so pleasantly in Emmet's ears, it almost hurts to hear the calm start to seep back in. Taking a cautious sip from his cup, to avoid the undoubtedly painful experience of having hot coffee shoot out of his nostrils, he glances over and sees Baby staring at him with a sheepish grin. "What, did I embarrass your beverage?"

"I was jus' thinkin' how nice ya look in my jacket," Baby says. "I like seein' ya in it."

 _That's not what you said the first time you saw me,_ Emmet has the right mind to tell him, but catches his tongue before he can spoil their fun with his spite. "Um, thanks. I guess I do kind of like it. It's warm to say the least." A curious thought enters his head and, pointing to the patch on his sleeve, he asks, "What do the stars mean?"

Baby shrugs. "Dunno. But my Gramps always used to say stars were a sign of honor."

"Sounds like you were pretty close to him," Emmet remarks, recalling the fond look Baby had given when he'd talked about his grandfather over dinner. The same look that returns now.

"Yeah, he was a great guy. Used to come to my football games all the time, made sure I didn't skip school, kept me outta trouble. He was kind but he was tough. An' he always had good stories to tell from back when he was in the war."

"Which war?"

"Korea, then Vietnam for a while. 'Till he got his arm shot off."

Emmet almost coughs up his sip of coffee. "Wow, that's—terrible."

"He didn't let it bother him, though," Baby says with a smile, as if plucking another fond memory from his barrel of bad ones. "He had a jacket jus' like that. Kept one of the sleeves pinned up. When I was little, I used to wear it an' pretend I was him. Used to trip all over myself 'cause it was so big." His eyes soften then. "He died when I was sixteen."

"I'm sorry," Emmet replies gently, and then, because he has to ask: "So, this wasn't his jacket then?" Something about wearing a dead man's clothes doesn't sit right with him, in spite of the very likely odds that he'd picked up a couple of estate sale items in his years of perusing thrift shops. 

Luckily, Baby shakes his head. "When he died Ma an' Pa sold all his stuff. I looked all over but I couldn't find his jacket. Then, one day, I saw one that kinda reminded me of it. So I bought it an' never let it outta my sight. Took me a while to grow into it. But don't feel like ya gotta do the same," he laughs. "Ya look good just like that."

"Can I give it back?"

"Huh?"

"The jacket. I didn't realize how much it meant." Though his dream had tried to tell him then, and his conscience reminds him now that he doesn't deserve the same amount of respect as the most important person in Baby's life. He's not a war hero. He's just a memory on film, one that Baby doesn't need, regardless of what he might think. "I can't keep it. It belongs with you." 

"No, it's OK, really."

"But—"

"Emmet, you don't hafta keep tryin' to give it back to me," Baby says. "It's yours now. And if I start to miss it too much, I jus' think of you wearin' it, an' it cheers me up again." He smiles at him, and even through the twilight and the shadows, and the haze of street lamps flickering overhead, Emmet can see it as bright as day, as if that summer afternoon had never ended.

Before he can think of an excuse to write off his blush, they find themselves at the entrance to Franklin Square.

A canopy of lights stretches across the darkening sky, painting the night with rainbow threads of color. Beneath it, the square's large fountain erupts happily, and farther off, past the vendor booths and pop-up beer gardens, the carousel shimmers like a nebula through its spray of crystal clear water. 

They've only just set foot inside the park, but Emmet can already feel Baby vibrating with excitement.

"Can we go see the merry-go-round first?" He asks, a childlike wonder in his eyes. " _Please?"_

Emmet would encourage Baby to cannonball into the fountain if that's what it takes to turn the topic away from him. "Sure," he shrugs, and downs another swig of coffee. "Go nuts."

His choice of words couldn't have been more unfortunate.

Baby shoots down the path like a five-year-old who'd just consumed his weight in energy drinks—a sight that would have come across as much more amusing had Emmet not been the one left chasing after him. "Hey! Wait!"

"C'mon, Emmet!" Baby shouts back. "Try to keep up!"

Emmet groans. "Baby, don't make me do this!"

"Do what? Lose?"

"I hate running!"

"Yeah, 'cause you suck at it!"

"I swear to god, if I catch you I'm putting you on a leash!"

By the time he reaches the opposite side of the fountain, where Baby has mercifully stopped to wait for him, Emmet's legs feel as if they've run a marathon, his pits as if they've sweated a waterfall, and his lungs as if they've been squeezed so silly they can't tell if they should scream or laugh along with Baby. "What took ya so long?" 

Emmet wheezes. "Do I...look like…the athletic type to you?" 

"Hmm…" Baby murmurs as he sizes him up. "I guess ya _could_ stand a workout or two. I sure wouldn't mind ya taggin' along to the gym with me." He raises his cup for a sip of coffee, but Emmet thrusts out his hand first.

"Give me that." 

Bewildered, Baby forks it over, only to start giggling again once Emmet attempts to chug the syrupy abomination as fast as he can. After he's finished, he shakes the empty cup for Baby to see. "There—consider yourself cut off." And he walks to the nearest trash can to deposit their garbage.

He returns to find Baby exactly where he'd left him, his gaze locked on the carousel, smiling as he watches it turn. Lights blink and twirl across his face, tinting his skin with a mesmerizing glow. "It's pretty ain't it?"

" _What?"_

"The merry-go-round," Baby says. "It's lit up so pretty."

"Oh." Emmet turns his eyes to the front, both embarrassed at himself and thankful that Baby hadn't caught him staring at the wrong thing. "Yeah, I guess it is." 

"Do ya ever think about ridin' one again?"

Aside from the times Deedee had tried to guilt-trip him into reliving his childhood? "Not really. To be honest, I think a grown man riding a fake horse looks kind of ridiculous."

Baby chuckles shyly. "Maybe yer right. But I still think about it a lot."

 _Great. Looks like the Regret Express is right on schedule._ "Well, I guess we could ride in the sleigh thing if you want," Emmet says in atonement. 

"But that's for old people an' parents," Baby whines. "I wanna ride the dragon or the zebra or even the rooster."

If Deedee were here, she'd have a witty comeback for that, but Emmet doesn't think his aching stomach can handle another laugh at this point, so instead he simply smiles and says, "Maybe you might be too big to ride it, but there's nothing that says you can't go up for a better look. Who knows, you could even remember something." Not that Emmet is particularly banking on that, but if it makes Baby happy, then who is he to stop him.

"Yeah! That's an awesome idea!" Beaming, Baby hurries towards the carousel, but doubles back just as fast, a hopeful look painted on his face. "Wanna come with me?"

"I think I'll stay here," replies Emmet. "Gotta keep an eye on you in case you try to escape again."

Baby flashes him a grin. "I'll come back to ya. Promise."

 _I know you will,_ Emmet thinks to himself as he watches Baby race to the carousel fence. It's a bittersweet revelation, another problem that fades to nothing once he sees Baby start to wave to the children on the ride. And perhaps it's the colors that blanket Baby's silhouette, or the animals that waltz in front of him, but Emmet swears he can feel the image folding between his fingers, waiting for him to reach out and make it his own. He smiles again, his hand grazing the bump in his bag where the camera sits.

Then, Baby turns and waves at him, and everything comes crashing down like a wall of glass. 

His head is spinning, heart beating with the intention to break his ribs. Feeling the ground slip from under his feet, he grips the strap of his messenger bag in both fists, clenches it tighter and tighter as he watches Baby make his way back.

"That was great!" Baby exclaims, music in his voice, colored lights still clinging to his dimples. "I even picked out the perfect horse for—" He stops suddenly, his smile wilting. "What's the matter? Did ya remember somethin'?"

"N-No, I—" Emmet swallows, breathes, tries to come up with an excuse. "I just...feel a little sick. Too many people out here."

"Do ya need to take another picture?"

"No, _no,"_ he rushes to reply. "I just want—I need to leave."

Baby's eyes darken with worry. "Sorry. It's my fault for makin' ya come out here."

"No, don't—" _don't make me do this, not now, please_ "—don't say that. It was my idea. I'm—" He curls his fists and bites the inside of his cheek, but it does nothing to hold the truth in. "I'm the one to blame for it. I'm the one who's too fucked up to handle a little stress."

"Let's go then," Baby says softly. "Maybe you'll feel better."

Emmet nods. The carousel had been a stupid idea anyway. Even more so now that he's seen how dull its golden lights look without Baby around to make them shimmer. 

"So ya know," Baby says as they make their exit, "I don't think yer fucked up, Emmet. You're jus' diff'rent is all." 

"Thanks, Baby," he breathes. "I'm glad at least one of us thinks so."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Baby smile, and though a small part of him still wants to, Emmet finds it impossible to return the gesture.

 

"I know we didn't find anythin' today," Baby says once they reach the stairs that lead down to the Eastbound El train, "but I had a good time lookin' 'round with ya." He smiles again, though Emmet doubts he'd ever truly stopped. It's not as if he'd made it a point to look at him during their short, mostly silent walk to the station. It's not as if he'd wanted to.

"Maybe one of us will figure it out eventually," he replies, eyeing the Westbound entrance across the street and hoping Baby will get the message. Baby doesn't.

"Yeah, we just need t'keep puttin' our heads together an' we'll get it. 'Cause yer the smart one, and I—I got…" Fumbling his words, he stuffs his hands in his pockets and turns his bashful eyes to the ground. "Would ya—do ya think—maybe you'd wanna come back to my place for some coffee?"

All the blood in Emmet's body seems to rush to his ears, desperate to drown out the echo of what he's just heard. "W-Why?"

"'Cause I—I been havin' fun today," Baby says. "An' I thought—maybe we didn't have to stop so soon?"

_Oh god. He's not—_

"I mean, I got a kitchen table we could sit at. An' a nice couch. Prob'ly not as nice as yours."

_I don't—_

"Oh, an' if ya want I can whip us up some snacks to eat. Promise it won't be outta a microwave." He looks up, and Emmet feels his resolve slowly start to crack. "So how 'bout it?"

All is takes is a blink of his eyes to see himself there; another heartbeat and he's imagining what else they could talk about, given more time and more coffee. And when Baby pulls his hands out of his pockets, Emmet can feel their fingers laced together, just as he'd pictured in his dream.

He fights the reflex to vomit.

No. He can't. No matter what Baby wants, what he hopes, Emmet can't be the man from those photos. He isn't the person Baby thinks he used to be. Maybe he never was.

"Listen, Baby," he blurts out, before his tongue can turn to stone under the pressure, "I'm sorry but I—I'm not looking for a relationship right now."

Baby's brow pinches at the center and his lips tremble towards a pout, but he quickly pulls them back into their trademark smile. "That's OK. We can still talk as friends, right?"

"I just—I think I'd like to go home," Emmet says, to Baby, to the night sky, to whoever cares to believe it. "I'm a little worn out after today."

"Sure, I get it," Baby answers, smiling still. "I'll see ya later, then? Hey, maybe we can wave to each other from across the tracks."

"Maybe," Emmet replies. And he turns and walks to the corner, eyes blurry with all the tears that Baby hadn't cried.

 

He doesn't leave the piss-streaked comfort of the subway stairwell until he hears his train roar into the station, the ding of its doors sending him on a mad dash through the turnstiles.

It's not that he's afraid to look, he tells himself, afraid of tipping his head in just the wrong direction to catch a glimpse at Baby on the opposite platform, waving at him with that stubborn smile on his face. If anything, he'd been brave in refusing to let Baby get his hopes up, or whatever he had called it. And maybe Baby will go home and make himself a cup of coffee and sit quietly at his table without anyone to talk to, and maybe he'll lie in bed and allow his tears to fall, or think of how the night could have gone differently. But regardless of what he chooses, Emmet won't be there with him. And as the train pulls away, and Emmet finds himself searching for a flash of green beyond the window, he slips his hands into his pockets and grips the photograph he'd taken earlier, trying not to think of what might have happened, if he hadn't the courage to say no.

The tear that trickles down his cheek offers him little relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been to [Franklin Square](http://historicphiladelphia.org/franklin-square/what-to-see/?gclid=CjwKCAjwzdLrBRBiEiwAEHrAYlSPM6MDrFR5emHdw39q_vxLKxqdmpDMWHqg6bNAPuf6_1JDW_mjMxoC0BMQAvD_BwE) maybe twice in my adult life. Sadly, I did not ride the carousel.
> 
> If you liked this chapter, please leave a comment or a hug. And you can always chat with me on [tumblr.](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com)  
> 


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